The Dark Muse
by Alby Mangroves
Summary: Safely numb, Marie has never had to question choices made so long ago. Until now. A chain of events has her running back to face truths, and the person she'd rather had stayed buried. Herself. AH, Angst, Suspense, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
1. Prologue: Watcher

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story for several months now, and just for being great human beings. Thanks also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading, even after I put them through months of WCs in which they were forced to read teasers. Somehow, they're still my friends.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions._

* * *

She does that thing with her hand like it's nothing; that flipping of hair, all from the wrist.

Like it costs her _nothing_.

He resents it because it costs him _everything_.

It costs him unparalleled restraint not to ruin the whole thing and just do her now, right now.

Right. The. Fuck. Now.

He could just go over there and make it happen, but she's not alone and the experience would be sullied. It's not the act itself that he craves; it's the control and the ownership that are instrumental, like air-filled lungs.

He won't be able to have those things if he doesn't wait for the designated time. He can't wait to see her when there are no more impulsive movements, when he himself finally controls everything. His every breath and every heartbeat count down to this moment, just like hers, though she might not know it.

She runs her palm across her cheekbone and covers his mark like she's ashamed of it. His whole body shudders with the need to get to her and do it, do it, DO IT... but no. He will have his perfection. He will wait until the time.

He has watched the ripening bruise over the course of several days and thinks the dark blue suited her. It's a shame that it's almost all yellows and greens now. He wonders if he can hold out, maybe see if there are more marks he can put on her before the deadline. As much as this thought makes his heart sing, he knows it probably won't work; it has been a monumental effort to hold out even this long. He doesn't have much patience left in him. Thankfully, it won't be long now.

He feels his mouth stretching into a grim smile. His hand travels slowly to his face to test this expression under his fingertips; sure enough, his lips are pulled to either side and his teeth are exposed. He wonders what his face would look like to other people, to her, while it's distorted into this grimace.

Perhaps he could test the boundary of his restraint just a little more. Maybe he could see her just one more time before the deadline and prepare her skin with more shadowy marks while testing the effect of this smile on her. He has been watching her meet this kid for the last couple of days and he likes it less and less. Perhaps it's time to put a stop to it. His hand travels to his pocket and he retrieves his cell.

"Midnight in Seattle, how may I assist you?" It's the same smooth voice, as always.

He can put a red-headed, shrewish face to this voice now, which somehow makes it more thrilling, especially as she's oblivious to that fact. He had a wonderful time just a few days ago, watching her while she stepped out for lunch, emerging all powersuit and heels from the lobby of the building that discreetly houses the escort agency. He devoured every nuance and expression on her face as she spoke into her phone about whatever inane bullshit women fucking talk about. He wasn't close enough to hear anything, but he's sure he didn't miss anything of interest.

"Hello, I'd like to request Marie for 9pm tonight." His voice is quiet and calm, the opposite of the way he feels right now. Looking at Marie sitting in the café across the road from him is very exciting, even if she is with that kid again. _Is he a client?_ He licks his lips.

"Hello Sir, nice to hear your voice again. Thank you for trusting us to provide a memorable evening," the redhead simpers.

He grunts in response, thinking that this tone of voice doesn't mesh with the hard, angular face of the skinny woman he saw lunching with Marie just last week while the latter was moving into her new apartment across town. It's all wrong and he knows that she's putting it on for him: the client. He realizes that she's still speaking and focuses on her voice again.

"...not available at this time. Perhaps I can suggest Heidi or Chelsea? Both come with excellent recommendations and pictures are, of course, available on our website. Would you like to consider these choices, Sir?"

_Not available at this time._ But he can see her, clear as day, sitting in the café and tugging on a lock of hair, her mouth moving like she's speaking. _Of course she's available_.

"There must be some mistake, of course she's available." His mouth spews out the thought before he can check it. It takes a huge effort to stop himself from saying something really stupid, like 'I'm looking at her right now.' There is a slight pause at the other end of the line, and unpleasant heat winds its way through his stomach as he wonders if he's said something he shouldn't have after all.

"My sincere apologies, Sir, Marie is away at this time. She's taking a short break. If you could talk me through your exact requirements, perhaps I can assist you with making an alternative choice. Let's start with an easy one: blonde or brunette?" She's being overly accommodating, her voice dripping with so much false charm that it makes him want to puke.

He realizes that she's serious. Marie is sitting right there, just beyond his reach, just across the road from him, and he can't have her. It's infuriating.

He watches as she speaks to the kid, her eyes a shape he's never seen before; they're soft and beautiful, entirely different from the wary, hard eyes she shows him. Why isn't she working? He doesn't like deviations from the plan; they can lead to unforeseen hurdles and this won't do. He needs to study this in detail and work out if this affects the timeline.

He snaps the phone shut without answering, he knows there is nothing to be gained by harassing the redhead. She's not the driving force behind this change, Marie is.

He turns away from his vigil and swiftly makes his way to Marie's apartment. His fingers close over the key in his pocket and he starts running, not knowing how much time he has before she goes home. It takes only minutes to get there and he slows down to a trot on approach, catching his breath.

He takes the stairs three at a time and twists the little key to open the door with a soft pop; he knows to put his shoulder into it, it's a little sticky. If Marie hadn't just moved here, he might have had time to work on fixing this in order to make his entries and exits silent and undetectable.

The first major hiccup in the timeline had happened when she inexplicably up and moved into this place just a few days ago. He was lucky to have been watching, or he might have missed the whole episode and never found her in time to make their fast approaching deadline. He wondered if he'd pushed her too far with his preparations, and had to back off while people came and went from both of her apartments, the old and the new. He watched carefully, and decided that it was good she had moved, it showed she had fight in her, after all. A survival instinct. It would be so much better in the long run.

Although this kind of improvisation had never happened before, he took it in stride and hit the ground running, rewriting the plan to suit this new location. Nothing has _really_ been affected. He has kept up his side of the exchange, and so far, she is sticking to hers. He wonders if she is aware of their agreement on the same level that he is; does she hurtle towards the deadline resigned to her fate, or will she fight at the last?

He's not sure which he hopes for more.

He steps inside Marie's apartment and leans his back against the door, closing it behind him. His steps are sure as he walks to her bedroom and slides open the wardrobe doors. He inspects her clothes, sliding his palm between the folds of dresses and inhaling the lovely scent of her.

His eyes pan down to find what he wants: the black knee-high leather boots. He removes them from the wardrobe and places them neatly beside her nightstand where she can't miss them. He briefly contemplates placing her trench coat on her bed as well, but doesn't want to spoil the subtle effect. He understands that sometimes, less is more. The boots are perfect, standing upright against the wall like they're full of her legs.

A flash of inspiration bursts in his mind and he wants her to wear the boots when he finally owns her, when she's perfectly still and just so right and complete and _his_.

Maybe he'll take them away with him when the time is up.

Satisfied with his contribution to making the plan a reality, he shuffles through her apartment, touching her things, lifting them to his face for a sniff or a closer look and putting them down again. She has hardly touched her possessions, most of the still-sealed cartons are in the same place as the last couple of times he was here since she moved in.

He can see no traces of anyone else having been here. The dishwasher is empty and only one glass and small plate sit atop the kitchen counter. He checks her laundry hamper and sees no evidence of anyone else's things. He hooks a pair of panties on his index finger and checks the gusset. He can find no indication of fluids, hers or otherwise. Most importantly, he can find no evidence of the kid. Everything appears on track.

Satisfied, he takes one final sweep of the apartment, and that's when he notices the book.

She has unpacked at least one carton of books, and a thick tome lays on the couch where she left it. He picks it up and reads the blurb. Something about monks. He flicks it open to Marie's bookmark and finds nothing of interest. Thumbing through once more to another pre-creased section, his eyes are immediately drawn to a small paragraph of text and he sucks in a breath.

'…_Once again I was tempted to follow her; once again William, grim, restrained me. "Be still, fool," he said. "The girl is lost; she is burnt flesh.' _

His pale eyes read the line over and over until he is satisfied that it's not a fluke. There is no such thing as coincidence.

He drops the book, having seen what he needed. Everything is definitely on track.

Silently, he lets himself out of the apartment.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks for taking the time to read my story!


	2. Mural

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions._

* * *

**10 Days Earlier...**

* * *

Marie's eyes follow the patterns of green, blue and gold from one end of the graffiti piece to the other, then back again.

It is easy to do; the piece coils around itself and leads the eye on an intricate dance. Green, blue and gold are such mundane words to describe the endless variants of color that have been used to create this art. The longer she looks at it the more entrancing it becomes, almost as though this blank, stark red brick wall was built purely for this captivating mural to adorn it.

She can't see a lot of detail from her second story window. She squints her eyes experimentally and it is still beautiful when out of focus. Now it looks like a birds-eye view of lush, verdant fields, the shapes appearing deliberate and rhythmic, like music.

She has no idea what the graffiti says. It has been spray painted in a loose, fluid style, and although she is sure there are letters in there, she just can't make sense of them. She doesn't really mind not knowing the meaning; the piece has no trouble visually conveying a mood. The warmth and appeal of it are intuitive.

She notices that the emerald piece is on the back of what appears to be a warehouse or shop beyond the courtyard wall. A previous tenant has obviously been very creative; this is no random spray paint attack on private property. It's beautiful and evocative and it makes her smile. She would like to look at it until the mystery of its meaning is revealed, and then to keep looking at it just because it pleases her.

She thinks she might go down into the courtyard and see it up close. The gnarled arms of the giant tree outside her window are obstructing her view and she wants to see it in its entirety. She wants to run her fingers along it.

Sighing, she promises herself to do just that. Soon.

Turning her attention back to her new apartment, Marie begins to unpack her possessions. It's a task she soon loses interest in, her momentum slowing as she goes.

Not having a car bothers her, and she wonders how long hers will take to fix. Being suddenly without transport of her own means that Marie has had to rely completely on Victoria to organize this move, and to find a new apartment at such short notice. Despite initial misgivings, the morning has gone according to plan and courtesy of Victoria's offsider Riley (and his muscled, mustachioed friends) her furniture is now all in, having sustained only minimal damage during the move. She supposes that she could have hired a van and moving people herself, but that would have meant having them in and out of the place the whole weekend, and she really didn't want to have strangers coming and going like that, under the circumstances. Besides, Victoria offered her help and organized it all; she made it so easy.

Marie and Victoria have known each other a long time; long enough for Marie to know that Victoria doesn't do favors out of the goodness of her heart, and Marie gets that she will be required to repay in an acceptable manner. She sighs, knowing what this will entail, only hoping that it won't involve The Ghoul. She doesn't really understand Victoria's relationship to the decrepit old man.

She has had the misfortune of meeting him on two occasions, and as far as she's concerned, it's two times too many. His thin, papery skin and colorless eyes make her skin crawl and he dresses like a relic in ridiculous, dandified shirts that smell like mothballs. He doesn't seem to blink, which increases the creepy factor to eleven.

Maybe she'll be required to see The Drill. She smirks, thinking that this won't be unpleasant. The smirk disappears as soon as she realizes that anything remotely bearable when given for free won't be required by Victoria as payback for a favor. Therefore, it won't be The Drill, who is a nice, funny guy that likes to regale her with stories about his workmates and family, and never makes her feel cheap. She remembers their first time with relative fondness.

His extended hand had hung between them and she had looked at it blankly, not sure what he was expecting her to do with it. He raised his other hand too and bent toward her, lightly grasping her own cool hand between both of his warm ones.

"Nice to meet you Marie, my name is Eric." His eyes were shy, waiting for her to take the lead. She was left staring at her hand after he'd released it.

She had realized then that he'd never done this before, and stepped in toward him to make him feel at ease, smiling at him confidently, slipping into her working persona. She hadn't allowed them to banter, taking the reins right away to make him feel comfortable. He allowed himself to be led by her and their meeting had been painless, and even somewhat pleasant.

He appeared to be under the impression that he should also try to please her. There was another life for him outside of this encounter where he would need to consider the wishes of a lover. She'd quickly made it clear that this wasn't a concern, since she was there to cater to his needs. He'd then proceeded to fuck her quite happily for almost the entire duration of their meeting, earning himself a moniker: The Drill. While he's not the most sensual, he is certainly the most consistently rhythmic of her clients, a sweet and funny guy who has since become somewhat of a regular.

Marie's thoughts about the method of repaying her debt lead her back to her current unenviable situation. All the weird stuff had started to add up and get to her. She knows now that she panicked, and this is why she has found herself at the mercy of others, a position she loathes.

She shudders involuntarily, wondering if she will ever know who was responsible for the vandalism to her car, and for the death of poor little Mike who really hadn't deserved that horrible fate. He never left the apartment without her, so she isn't sure how it happened, but apparently he ingested poison. She searched high and low for whatever it was that had killed him, but found nothing in the house.

She knows that she should have known better than to get attached to the little dog. Everything she has ever touched turned to shit.

Thinking of poor Mike with his tongue puffy and purple, his eyes bulging obscenely from his scruffy little face, makes her suddenly feel tired, disconnected. She sits back on her haunches in front of the mess, her consciousness wanting to blank out that hideous visual. She feels completely drained.

It wasn't until her car was defaced as well that she actually realized she needed to move. _Immediately._

Putting the events together, she can see they're not isolated incidents. It has become painfully obvious that Mike hadn't just accidentally ingested poison, he'd been given it. She suspects that one of her neighbors slipped something under her door; maybe Mike barked a lot when she wasn't home and they'd had enough. Instead of confronting her with her annoying dog problem, they'd just gotten rid of the problem. She wasn't about to call the police to report it. That would mean giving them her name, whereas she was quite content to remain one of the millions of people that were officially considered _Missing_, away from the public eye and unwanted attention.

And so, Victoria came to the rescue and _voila_; Marie was moving into a new apartment across town in a matter of days rather than weeks. Just as well, because she is definitely spooked by everything that has been happening in her life.

She thinks of the johns and although she usually only sees regulars, she certainly doesn't really know them well enough to know if any of them are capable of random acts of brutality.

She works very hard at staying completely aloof from anyone who happens to make guest appearances in her life, most especially her clients.

She looks at the boxes strewn throughout her new apartment and grimaces; this will take forever.

Her eyes unfocus as she stares through the stacked books, minutes ticking by silently, her mind meandering, thoughts wandering, sifting for comfort. It has been many years since Marie has seen her childhood foster-sister and friend, but sometimes, like now, she sighs softly with the thought of her name. _Sparky_.

She sits motionless, while images of her only friend seep into her fried brain, like balm over an old wound.

She remembers Sparky's laughing eyes and the dimple in her left cheek. She smiles as she recalls her fine, fly-away dark hair, cut short like a boy's, which had a habit of retaining the shape of the pillow she slept on: flat on one side and sticking up in the air on the other.

In this memory, they are both happy and smiling, but the harsh reality can't be kept at bay for long, and her mind jumps to the moment where Marie is fourteen and Sparky is only eleven. The last time they saw each other, both of them were in tears and sobbing their goodbyes, as Marie's only friend was bundled off to live with a new foster family. She vividly remembers the shape of Sparky's palms pressed against the inside of the car window as she is driven away, out of her life forever.

Marie finds herself with her own palms pressed flat against the cool glass of the window, eyes boring into the extraordinary graffiti again. _Green, blue, gold._ Swirling, overlapping layers.

She blinks a couple of times, wondering how she got to the window, yet she can't remember moving. She feels moisture on her cheek. She brushes a fingertip against it hesitatingly, and sure enough, it comes away wet. She watches the fluid spread across the pad of her finger.

She brushes it lightly against her lips. Salt. It's been years since she has cried for Sparky.

_My hands are not fast or nimble or strong; they are delicate and slender_, she thinks, while looking at them. She has slim, pretty hands, which she uses for clumsy, ugly things. She suddenly realizes that she wants to touch something that matters with them. _Touch something that is real_.

Not waiting on another thought to intrude, she quickly makes her way out the apartment and downstairs into the courtyard. She walks purposefully to the paint-adorned brick wall, seeing a whole new level of beauty close-up to the piece. She comes to a sudden halt directly in front of the wall.

She sweeps the decorated bricks with the tips of her fingers, lightly caressing along the crevices between them, leaving traces of salt water behind like an invisible watermark. The mortar is grey, rough and irregular, gritty under her fingertips. She runs her flat hand along the face of the bricks, testing the texture of the color on them. She looks for meaning in the curves and lines that she suspects are letters but understanding continues to elude her, even up close.

She carefully and slowly presses her smooth downy cheek to the bricks, laying it against the sun-warmed roughness. She rolls her face into the brick a little, closes her eyes and sniffs lightly, savoring the damp and cool smell of the brick wall.

Opening her eyes, she watches as a tiny ant marches in the mortar groove. Her pupils contract slightly as she pans out from the insect and gazes down the length of the wall. She is aware of everything at once; the air vibrating with a slight breeze, the sunlight falling in filtered rays through the massive tree that grows in the courtyard, with its arms stretched out over her head in a protective umbrella.

She spies a little patch of blue sky above her and stares at it as clouds roll themselves into ever more complex patterns in an effort to engulf the gap among them. She listens to the rustling of the tree above and the whispering of a creeping vine that winds its way up the wall and onto the roof of the building that she cleaves to.

She follows the gnarly twists of the vine with her eyes. It has a slightly magical feel about it, like it belongs in _The Secret Garden_, as though she only has to lift away the green curtain to find the portal to a place of unearthly beauty. She stretches out her arm, gliding it along the bricks, until she grazes the vine's knotted trunk with her slim fingers. She lifts the delicate tendrils away from the wall, and almost laughs at herself. Was she really expecting to find a damn doorway? _Jesus Christ on a pony. I'm on another damn planet today._

A harsh guttural rumble cuts the air suddenly, and she recoils away from the wall, startled by the unexpected noise. For a moment, the sound is so alien that she freezes in her tracks, expecting something huge to materialize directly overhead and pound her into the courtyard. The adrenalin sears her veins and tingles in her nerves while her ears struggle to identify the sound.

And then she has it; somewhere close by, a motorbike has been kicked to life.

Her heart pounds out a jackrabbit rhythm, and she's rooted to the spot with her eyes closed and chest heaving, the thick tension gradually leaking out of her. She hears a high-pitched giggle, and realizes it's her own. She stops making the offensive sound immediately and just breathes deeply, calming herself.

She stands in the courtyard for a few more minutes, delaying the return to her apartment. She considers her choices, and the more she deliberates, the more important the distinction between them seems.

She can go back upstairs and play the happy harlot some more, with her props and costumes and the lovely facade, her surface tension relatively untouched.

Or, she can do the opposite of safe and plunge through the surface into the unknown.

She's very unsettled by all the weird shit that's been happening lately. She is a woman who effectively disappeared from the radar years ago, and she's always cautious to keep herself at arms' length from people. The recent weirdness is making her jumpy. A growing feeling of unease gnaws at her entrails, like a rat. She isn't above pretending she doesn't feel the gnawing, but she is well practiced at ignoring it. Or at least, she _was_ well practiced at it, before all the freaking out.

This isn't a sudden and unexpected change in the air.

Each day of the past few stressful weeks has pried one more nail from the lid of the coffin she'd sealed herself in so long ago. All the little incidents are adding up, the stack becoming unstable the higher it grows.

Impulsively, instead of returning upstairs, she walks out of the courtyard and away from her apartment, into the unknown.


	3. Orbit

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions._

* * *

Without her disguise on: the make-up, the clothes and the resignation of knowing her place in the world, Marie feels conspicuous walking down the street. She jams her hands deep in her pockets, folding herself over her insecurity.

Actually being naked might be preferable to this feeling of being alien, an outsider somehow, disconnected from the people passing her in the street. She looks around furtively, almost expecting fingers to be pointing her out as a fraud. _Not _seeing them doesn't lessen her discomfort.

She is unlikely to run into anyone she knows. Even if she did, she will probably be unrecognizable to them without her _Marie_ exterior. Still, she is well and truly out of her comfort zone, and doesn't know why she'd ever thought venturing out of the apartment was a good idea.

She never really spent time outside of her old apartment, and she's never been in this part of Seattle prior to now. She made her living space into a self-sufficient hobbit hole and her simple needs were easy to cater to within its confines. She plans to do the same with the new place as soon as she's had time to unpack and find a place for everything.

There is usually no reason to go out. Mostly, venturing out of her apartment is necessitated only by 'the call' from Victoria. Then it's merely a case of traveling to meet with the client in a place they designate and returning home again. The walk she's taking is a complete novelty because it has no purpose; she's out here only because she defied the pull of her safety net on some kind of whim. Her instincts tell her this _is right_, but her common sense is screaming at her to go back, _run back_; return to what she knows. The conflict frightens her because it's unexpected, but what really scares her is that this should be just a walk down the street for an ordinary person, and yet the only thing she can think is that it's dangerous, it's too open out here. It's like she ran away from her life yesterday and not as a teenager several years ago. Logically, she knows nobody is looking for her anymore - if they ever were - and nobody cares what became of her. She might be _Missing_, but she's not _Wanted_.

Her eyes are hard, almost squinting in defiance. She is thrumming with excitement, but filled with suspicion at the same time.

A tree-lined street stretches out in front of her, pretty awning signs flapping gently in the breeze. She wonders what her sign might say, had she an awning. Before she can stop the image, 'Whore' pops into her mind. With this thought resounding like a bomb explosion in her head, she almost walks straight into a parked car.

Normally, she would be happy to go about her business, meeting her fake-name using clients, giving them her own fake name along with her fake everything else. Any confronting thoughts like this would have been drowned with a stiff drink and shaken loose with some thrashing about to angry music with Alec in a bar somewhere. Of all the people she encounters in her life, he's probably the closest to a friend that she has, though she wouldn't trust him with these thoughts and mostly presents him with the same false exterior as everyone else.

Stopping and standing very still apparently isn't doing anything to help her regain her facade. The discomfort only gets worse. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, exhaling slowly. It has been many years since she took drugs of any kind. She isn't normally in the habit of thinking about it, let alone making snarky jokes about it, even in her head. Even an Advil is carefully avoided, a nap being her preferred solution to a simple headache. She still feels nauseous thinking about the events that led up to her breakdown all those years ago. Still, medication of some kind might be nice at this point.

A few deep breaths later, she opens her eyes again, and finds that she is looking at a machine. Directly across the street, a motorbike rests on its kickstand, in front of a café called Blondie's. Grateful for the distraction, she focuses on it, remembering the loud, raw sound which made her panic in the courtyard earlier.

She notices that the motorbike looks vintage, or at least that it isn't enclosed in modern, loudly colored fairings. It's… raw. All the bits of it are exposed to her eyes: there are coiled springs and thick, black tubes, and lots of manly-looking metal parts that probably function in some highly mysterious manner to make shitloads of noise. Inside Blondie's, there is probably a paunchy, middle-aged bald man, wearing a crispy clean, never-before-worn leather jacket with a tacky skull on the back, possibly even with completely gay tassels hanging off the bottom. Perhaps he thinks that the bike gives him back his mojo.

_The poor bastard doesn't stand a chance._

She swallows down her nausea, and steps out into the street, trying to pull off a purposeful strut rather than the confused shuffle she thinks she probably exudes, matching her state of mind. She hears a faint tinkling of wind chimes as Blondie's door opens inward.

She begins to cross the street just as the doorway expels a man from within. He's zipping up his jacket as he steps out onto the sidewalk. It's life in slow motion: the gritty street under her shoe soles, the warmth of her own breath on the wind, the scent of autumn. It's as if all of her senses have just switched on. Confusion must be written all over her face. It's sensory overload.

It's just as well that the man is not looking in her direction, his zip snags and he looks at it intently as he works it up and down with slim fingers, trying to free it.

Momentum continues to push her forward as she openly gapes at him, and she thinks she might have forgotten how to breathe. He stands beside the bike, his side to her, his face turned away. An unruly mop of auburn hair flutters and sweeps across his face in the fresh air. She recognizes bed hair immediately. His is possibly the best example of bed hair she's ever seen, and she has seen quite a few.

Her eyes continue to skim his profile and Marie is quite aware that she's gawking like an idiot. He's quite tall, though with absence of comparable markers she doesn't really register exactly how tall, except he probably towers over her. Slim and lean in his riding pants, he's probably almost lanky under the bulky coat and the big boots. There is certainly no paunch and _definitely_ no tassels. She identifies him as the owner of the bike by the helmet hanging from his long fingers, and by his easy manner around the machine. His hands caress the metal naturally like it's his.

She wonders what it would be like to be his.

She slows down a little as she passes him, though it's not a conscious decision. His scent registers with her and it's strong enough that she almost tastes it on her palate. It's leather, heated metal, coffee and instinctive attraction, and the mix of these ingredients together is inexplicably _right_ on every level though she's unsure why. It's a gut reaction and she locks the scent away in a part of her that's safe from harm.

Up close, his hair is like windswept sex; it hangs over his brow in dark locks like the flawless mane of a Manga villain. She notices that his rather patrician profile is a little scruffy, stubble lining his top lip and framing his angular jaw with the smattering of a dark shadow. His brows are heavy, and she would give anything, _anything_, to see how they frame his eyes; she's absolutely desperate to see his eyes. He never looks up, never notices her as she walks softly past him. He is completely oblivious that his visage will probably burn under her eyelids for the rest of the day. Or always.

Marie wishes she had a reason to delay going inside, but really doesn't. Feeling helpless, she continues on to the café door, opening it slowly. Her hair whips around her face like octopus tentacles, sucked from the chill outside and into the heat of the café. As soon as the vacuum effect dissipates it hangs over her shoulders again, like hair is supposed to. She can still smell him, and wonders if the cold air that had been sucked into the café along with her carries a little piece of him too. It feels like an embrace.

She follows the scent into the café and finds that it leads her to a crimson vinyl booth. Succumbing to instinct, she slips into the booth without hesitation and slides over to sit closer to the window. She can still see him out there, his back to her, forcing his long fingers through his bed hair, putting on his helmet and fastening it. When he lifts his leg over the bike and straddles it, the muscles of her stomach contract and her hand involuntarily reaches towards him, knocking over a salt shaker. She hurriedly picks it up again and watches as he kicks the bike to life and knocks the kickstand up with the heel of his boot. He's already looking out into traffic and rolling the black, noisy machine from the curb onto the road. She watches him, transfixed in silence, as he rides away oblivious to the impression he has made on her.

When he finally disappears from view, she feels like her arm is suddenly missing. She looks down at her hands and notices they are shaking. She doesn't understand the sudden anxiety; she's never usually this emotional. She thought she had made peace with herself over her way of life years ago, but apparently your heart can still want something you know in your head will never be yours.

In an attempt to still her trembling hands, she lowers them down to the table, but they intercept an unexpected obstacle on their way there.

A book is lying on the table in front of her, and her fingertips are now resting on it, her palms hovering in midair. She spreads her fingers and caresses the book's embossed title.

_The Name of the Rose._

Marie is completely shocked to find that she wants to burst into tears. She is perplexed as to the reason for her heightened emotions. _Maybe I'm premenstrual_, she thinks, knowing damn well that she isn't. It's in her job description to know such things, and she's not due for two weeks.

She shuts her eyes so tightly that she sees bursts of light beneath her lids. The whole day is turning out to be a disaster movie. The only thing missing are the choppy segues and the overly-dramatic music.

She breathes deeply, gradually opens her eyes and pans around the café. Apparently nobody has noticed her little episode. Straightening up confidently in her seat would be easier if she was fully made-up in her Marie shell, but as it is, she melts further into the booth. The backrest is warm as she leans against it, and she has to actively stop herself from wondering if the Rider had sat here before her. Again, she wishes she had really seen his face.

Even judged purely on his profile he's a good looking man, and although she never knew she has such a thing, he might be just her type. She doesn't usually have the luxury of choosing, but if the choice was hers, it would be someone like him._ No, _she rephrases in her head_, it would be him._ He is… fascinating.

Normally, she immediately places any male she encounters into a group: the adulterers, the thrill-seekers, the sociopaths. Of course, this says something about the company she keeps. She shakes her head ruefully at the thought. Whatever, she isn't judgmental. How could she be?

But this man, he is indeed intriguing. Not only in regards to his incredible physical presence and the effect he's had on her at just one glance, but because he doesn't immediately fall into any of her groups. Of course, she hasn't spent any time in his company and even she, being a scathing judge of character, will need at least minimal interaction to categorize. Maybe she just hasn't seen enough of him to put him in the appropriate box. Perhaps once he opens his mouth, it will be clear that he is insipid, a pale shadow of the promise his strong profile makes when appraised. Perhaps he is a thief, or worse.

She snorts under her breath. _She_ is the 'worse.'

All this, coupled with the fact that there's not so much as even a slim chance she'll ever get to speak to him. She would be happy to accept his appeal at face value and just tuck it away inside saving it for a rainy day, but just can't seem to stop herself thinking about him.

Her own reaction to just seeing him in the street is also interesting. He is obviously attractive, but is that all it is? Physical beauty isn't something that she normally notices. From experience, it often stretches over personality shortcomings, predictable self-absorption, or worse: core-deep ugliness.

Why should she care that about a man who just got onto his bike and rode away, even one as striking as him? His appeal is inexplicable.

She sits in the booth for a few minutes, trying not to think. The trees lining the street sway uniformly with the breeze. She watches birds, clouds, and nothing of importance. It's almost like meditation until a vibration against her hip startles her, shaking her out of her reveries. She retrieves her phone from her pocket, identifying the caller.

_Victoria.  
_  
One last deep breath and she answers in her _Marie_ voice, now almost completely back to normal. "Yes?"

"Your car will be ready later this week." Victoria always comes straight to the point. They never mince words with one another. "Do you want Riley to pick it up for you?" Marie likes Riley. He is uncomplicated, and follows Victoria's orders just so. There are no questions, no judgments.

"No, that's not necessary. He was here all day moving all my furniture into the apartment so I'm sure he's over it. And anyway, it's local, isn't it? The repair shop, I mean? I can get it myself if you tell me where." She punches the details Victoria gives her into her phone.

"Are you available tonight?" Of course, Marie should have anticipated this question. It is one more piece in the Marie puzzle, and just what she needs for her façade to slot back into place again.

"Mm-hm. Do you have something for me?" The familiar conversation is soothing. The same words are exchanged each time. She feels calm and in control again.

"Yes. Your 'Entomologist' has asked for you." Victoria's tone is all business as always, even though she willingly adopts all of the nicknames Marie thinks up for her clients. To her, they all have names like that, the regulars. There are no other names exchanged.

_How convenient_, Marie thinks. She will get to wear her actual mask as well as her metaphorical one. He isn't the most pleasant client. Truth be told, he is creepy. His nickname derives from the distinct feeling of being pinned like an insect to a card when he directs his unblinking gaze at her. After meeting him almost weekly for two months she should be used to it, but somehow, it just never gets easier with this one.

"Time?" she records the details Victoria gives her and knows from the clipped tone of the conversation that Victoria is already moving her attention to other matters; this box is now ticked._ Pun intended_, she snorts again lightly. They settle on the venue, then Marie disconnects the call, slipping the phone back into her pocket. They never exchange pleasantries, not even a goodbye. It seems unnecessary.

She is relaxed and in control of her faculties again, her façade firmly in place once more. Her defense mechanism takes over, and she's starting to think like _Marie_ again.

The Entomologist will have the time of his life. She'll fuck him senseless while thinking of her new fancy, the nameless motorcycle rider in all his leather-clad, auburn-haired manly glory.

Of course, the actual participant will be none the wiser. As always, she will indulge him; it's what she is paid to do, after all.

With her equilibrium returned and the crisis averted, she looks around the café for a server, and smiles expectantly at the young girl in a cute apron who holds her gaze. A hot chocolate is in order.

* * *

**A/N: **A couple of my favorite authors send a teaser of the next chapter to their readers. Would anyone be interested in such a teaser for this story? Thank you very much for reading.


	4. Masque

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions._

* * *

Walking with confidence, Marie holds her head high as she makes her way on the tree-lined street. She's leaving Blondie's with a large cup of hot chocolate in her hand, and _The Name of the Rose_ tucked under her arm. She isn't sure why she took it, she did it on a whim. She simply grabbed it as she slid out of the booth. Her own copy is still packed in a carton somewhere in her new apartment and she really feels like reading it now, but not like rummaging through cartons to find it.

She wonders whether the Rider's hands have touched this book. Upon closer examination, she can see that the corner of the cover sports a permanent crease and the spine has been broken. There are a couple of stains too, browned stamps indicative of an often-read tome. She thinks this book has been well-loved, and she finds herself really hoping that it's _he_ who loves it as her own fingers delicately skim over the same creases he might have touched.

As she walks back to her new apartment, she lifts the cup to her lips to take small sips, all the while thinking about the unruly mess of hair falling about his striking face. Unaware that she's humming, Marie turns her face up into whatever rays of sun the patchy clouds allow to peek through.

The wind picks up as she walks, twisting strands of hair across her throat and cheeks. It's whipped up mercilessly into a coarse tangle by the relentless thrashing back and forth. She repeatedly yanks hunks of it away from her mouth, each time cursing under her breath. Finally, having had enough of this Sisyphean task, she twists the hair into a knot and tucks it into the back of her sweatshirt. With her long coltish legs and high, tight butt, she could pass for a young boy, swimming in the oversized sweatshirt, holding her oversized cup.

Her appointment with the Entomologist tonight won't be a difficult one. He's a straight down to business kind of guy. She'll be in and out of there within forty-five minutes. Marie plans to run herself a bath in her tub tonight when she gets home after her meeting with him. It's a luxury she didn't have in her previous apartment, and she feels vaguely guilty about liking the tub, as though poor little Mike had to die so she could have a nice bubble bath.

She almost runs up the stairs to her apartment, her echoing, thumping footsteps reminiscent of a gaggle of rowdy teenagers. She stops in the hallway outside her door and looks down at the stairwell, wondering what the emptiness looks like.

The sounds echo off the hallway walls. It's not a real echo but only a shallow bounce, and just serves to make her feel small and alone. She turns her back on the hallway and enters her apartment, almost bashing her face into the door when it sticks and doesn't open straight away. A curse and a good shove against it with her hip and shoulder help the door open and once inside, she leans back against it until it closes, sighing.

Annoyingly, it appears as though the boxes full of her possessions have not unpacked themselves in her brief absence.

Marie makes her way to the bedroom and drops the rescued book on her bed for later, then sits down next to it and kicks off her shoes. Flexing her toes, she stretches out on the bed, turning her face up to the window to catch the dappled sunlight on her skin. The band of warmth is so lovely on her cheeks that she wriggles up higher on the bed just to get more of the golden heat on her face. Combing her fingers gently through her disheveled hair, Marie dozes, lightly cocooned in the warm glow.

Through the peach veil of her closed eyelids, she can see the afternoon sunlight and although it's not the right color, the rusty hue reminds her of the Rider. She pictures him mounting his motorbike once again, his thighs flexing against the long leather seat as he balances the weight of the vintage machine between his legs. In her daydream, he looks back at her over his shoulder with the playful and dangerous eyes of a siren until all she can see is him, and until her own fingers find their way from her tangled hair down to her throat and then over her sweatshirt to the swell of a breast underneath. Lying so still that she can sense her own heartbeat feels like the most intimate meditation, like a lover's caress.

It has been a long time since she was touched with love in this way, and the sensation is lovely, the flesh soft and yielding beneath her hand. Would _he_ touch her like this? Would his touch be gentle and feather-light, or would his hands be rough, hard and commanding, taking and not asking? She pinches her breast roughly through her clothes as these thoughts stir up a lustful fog in her mind and a quiet moan reverberates in her chest. Would those graceful fingers touch her in the same easy and sure manner that they touch his bike? Or would they dig into her like claws, those long Klimtian fingers, eliciting pain as well as pleasure? She knows from experience that it's a fine line to tread.

Although the image of him burns brightly beneath her lids, the lack of detail is frustrating, as is the fact that she never really saw his face. Beneath the bulk of his riding clothes, his physique is a mystery to her. She draws it in her mind with tentative strokes: sinewy musculature coiling under the fair skin, acute edges at the wrist and elbow, broad shoulders spearheading to a narrow waist... yes, she can see it all in her mind's eye. A perfect specimen: slender, wiry, powerful. Before she knows it, her hand is under the sweatshirt and inside her bra, her fingers circling, scissoring, coaxing at her nipple as Marie seduces herself with her vision of the Rider.

What would he think of her slim, boyish body? She's always thought of herself as unripe, unfeminine. Zafrina, a lover in her past, often told her she was beautiful but it's such a stretch to think of herself that way. She is modestly popular as an escort and knows she isn't unattractive, but beautiful? _No, not beautiful, nor desirable. Not to him._

And just like that, the spell is broken.

Sighing, she opens her eyes and lays her hand beside her face on the bed, where it looks like a flightless bird against her dark green cotton sheets. Somehow, these soft and introspective moments fail to bring comfort, and her own psyche has sabotaged her yet again. _It's because daydreams are fleeting. They don't last. They don't stay. It's better not to dream._

Shaking off the remnants of her woolgathering, Marie spends the next few hours rearranging boxes and dispersing some of their contents throughout the apartment. Her mind is still not on the job though, and she stubs her toes on boxes twice and even rams her elbow into a bookshelf, deadening her whole arm for a few minutes. _Shit, serves me right for daydreaming about a guy!_

When feeling gradually returns to her arm, she finds a blue stain already darkening the tip of her bruised elbow and an arrow of pain shoots into her arm when she gingerly rubs circles into the sore spot. The numbing pain helps her get centered.

As the afternoon wears on and shadows lengthen, she takes a hot shower and scrubs herself clean, thoroughly washing her hair and then just standing under the water as it cascades over her. This is business. The soak in her bath later will be pleasure.

Was she really going to try and superimpose the Rider over the Entomologist tonight? She thinks now that this is a bad idea. His vision is strong in her mind, and she doesn't want to sully the lean, auburn-haired ideal by bringing him to the meeting with her creepy client. Carefully blow-drying her hair, Marie irons it straight between heated tongs. The make-up is next and she heavy-handedly lines her eyes with jet-black kohl. Surprisingly, it takes a really long time to get this _just_ right, as there is a fine line between a good smoky eye and a raccoon imitation.

She paints her pale plum mouth with shiny red smears, for that evil harlot look the Entomologist favors, and wonders if he'd recognize her in daylight without this ridiculous facade if she walked up to him and spat in his face.

This errant thought makes her eyes wide and she stares at herself in the mirror, unblinking. _Spit in his face? What the hell is going on here?_ The guy's a prize creep, but a client nevertheless. It's a bad idea to go into a meeting with him thinking thoughts like these.

She releases a slow, even breath and reaches for her cell. _Time to call a cab.  
_  
She pulls on her stockings and encounters a snag on one of her calves. Muttering, she decides there's no time to go out and buy another pair, especially as she hasn't got her car and her face is already reminiscent of Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. She doesn't fancy popping into the grocery store to scandalize the entire neighborhood on her first day here. In an inspired moment, she pulls at the snag until a ladder-like tear opens along the length of her slim leg, then pokes her fingers through the thin weave and creates more ladders.

She steps into her stilettos but realizes that the ladders in her stockings will be entirely visible under the hem of her trench. She quickly improvises by rummaging through a carton of shoes, finds her tall boots and tests the look in front of a full length mirror, running her hands along her leather encased calves.

She dresses in silence, zipping herself into her black corset. The hideous thing looks like it's elaborately laced across her back but it's strictly an affair of convenience; the laces are for show only and are not actually functional. She wears the corset on request for a couple of her clients and it's easy to unzip and discard when she's done.

She's conflicted about her feelings when it comes to the corset; she hates the horrible thing and loves it. It hurts and leaves marks on her skin which take hours to fade, however, it helps her function as _Marie_ when she needs it to. Pressing with her pale fingers, she adjusts her breasts inside it, so it doesn't rub painfully and so that her modest endowment appears to heave over the top of the tight bodice with every breath.

Turning towards her mirror, she inspects herself: dark hair glossy and long, swaying gently above the curve of her behind, the black corset squeezing feminine curves out of her slim body, lacy panties like the blackest embroidery poured over her pert ass, and the trampy stockings, suspenders and knee-skimming boots all add up to an impressive costume. She buttons her trench coat over it all, and suddenly looks like any young woman in Seattle, stylishly swathed in black- inconspicuous right down to the carefully deadened, nonchalant eyes.

She perches awkwardly on the armrest of her worn sofa while waiting for the cab to arrive, which seems to be taking forever. She clasps her hands together in her lap, not knowing quite what to do with them. The silence in the apartment reflects the state of her mind perfectly.

Finally, she hears the car pull up outside, and it's time. The moment she rises from the sofa, the _Marie_ veneer slips into position and she walks confidently into the stairwell, each step resounding with a shallow echo. Downstairs in front of her building she slides into the cab and gives an address, ignoring the driver's attempts at conversation. She looks at the city flying past outside, adorned by the luminous streetlight globes, and in a matter of minutes they arrive at her destination.

Marie leaves the cab sure, confident, and unapproachable. She doesn't spare a glance at the hotel's reception; knowing that eye contact with the hotel staff invites speculation about her purpose. She makes her way straight through the busy lobby and to the elevators, a small, dark figure amongst business people and tourists, pressing the button for her level. Standing in their midst in the over-bright light while a dumbed-down version of _The Girl from Ipanema_ permeates softly through the lift, feels like falling out of the space-time continuum, as though she has momentarily ceased to exist.

Marie exits the elevator without a backward glance and strides purposefully. She's been here before and knows the layout of the hotel well enough to estimate the location of the room.

She finds her way and comes to a stop, facing the door. She takes a deep breath and feels nothing while her knuckles tap quickly on the smooth wood. The comforting numbness has spread through her and she's in the zone. She's calm, knowing from experience that nothing can touch her while she's _Marie_.

The door swings inward, and she's looking at the Entomologist.

He's of average height, slightly taller than herself. His face could be seen as handsome, if it weren't for the weird eyes; they're incredibly pale blue, almost glowing. He fixes them on Marie and she immediately feels that he's looking into the secret compartments of her psyche, the ones she's desperate to hide. She falters slightly when facing him like this, he holds all the power here at the door, where she is still just the girl he has ordered to satisfy his needs.

She clamps the facade down around herself and stonily returns his steely gaze. She wonders if her make-up is still in place, it feels like it should be melting under this intense scrutiny. They hold pause awkwardly like this for a few moments while she stands in his doorway. Finally, he nods, his extended arm inviting her in. She almost shudders with relief and sweeps past him, happy to put an end to the mind probe.

She comes to a halt in the middle of the suite, casting her eyes across the beige hotel décor. She feels his inspection continue as she stands with her back to him. She flips her hair over her shoulder and looks sideways in his direction, looking at his feet, still anxious, still herself.

"Good evening. How are you?" Marie knows that this is probably the only pleasantry they will exchange tonight. He doesn't like to waste time.

"Marie. It's lovely to see you." His low, quiet voice slips over her like a cloying blanket. She dully wonders if he engages other girls but realizes she doesn't really care. It makes no difference. "The bathroom is this way."

And just like that, the conversation closes, and she's off to put in place the last piece of her costume. She can feel him watching her entering the bathroom and then the door latches behind her. She removes her silk scarf and little black purse and shrugs off her trench coat, the fabric whispering warnings about the strange charge in the air as she hangs it on the back of the door. There are no windows in this room, and she is confronted by a massive mirror above the vanity.

Marie leans into it and looks over her face, satisfied that her make-up remains intact. She is careful to avoid looking into her own eyes; having only herself to answer to doesn't mean it's easy and painless. She reaches inside her small purse and retrieves the mask; the sequins and beads catch the fluorescent lights overhead and sparkle like tiny jewels. She fixes it to her face, lifting a chunk of thick hair and sliding the elastic band under it. She quickly braids her hair into the woven plait he likes, and steps back to see the full effect.

The woman looking back at Marie is a complete stranger and at the same time, her closest friend. She looks strong and powerful, sexy and commanding. Her darkened eyes are accentuated by the incredible mask; it looks so innocuous lying in her purse on its own but comes alive when placed over her eyes, and suddenly there's no danger when she looks into them, nothing hiding in the depths that can't be controlled. The sparkly beads make it look like it's dancing fluidly across her cheekbones. She appraises her skin, and knows it's beautiful, her one real gift. She has never really looked after it, and yet it's almost translucent, clear and smooth.

Her hands caress her exposed arms lightly. Marie has always been as pale as a vampire, staying out of the sun since a very painful sunburn in her childhood. Tiny freckles delicately sprinkled across her nose are the only embellishment to her creamy complexion, apart from the heavy make-up she's wearing tonight. She's all raven's wing black and fragile porcelain white, this _Marie_, and finally the pieces are all in place.

She watches with glassy eyes as the woman in the mirror gently rubs her index finger along her nose. Her hand sweeps down her face and throat and comes to rest on the swell of a breast. She looks incredible strapped into her black corset, her naturally small waist accentuated by the cinched bodice.

The black contraption flares slightly over her slim hips giving her a more feminine silhouette and her legs look impossibly long underneath it. She likes the laddered stockings encasing her thighs too; she feels bolder for improvising with them. Black leather boots stiffen her calves, and she stands firm with legs slightly apart.

Her mouth stretches into a tight smile while she takes in the whole package. With her mask firmly in place, she's ready to face his uncompromising glare.

* * *

**A/N:** As before, thank you very much for reading. Readers of the last chapter expressed some interest in receiving a teaser for the this story, so I will continue to reply to reviews with a short snippet.


	5. Splinter

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions._

* * *

_**Warning: **__**This chapter features prostitution, a**__**ggressive**__** and**__** unromantic sex **__**and i**__**ncludes some violence.**_

* * *

One last detail before she must face the Entomologist. From within her little bag, she retrieves a little tube of lube. It's only practical.

Finally ready to proceed, Marie takes a final long look at herself in the mirror, then turns swiftly and opens the bathroom door, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dimly lit suite.

She doesn't immediately see her creepy client and scans the room, finally finding him standing near the windows, his pale silhouette outlined against the dusky Seattle vista. She can see that he has already undressed, and she eyes his unappealing naked form briefly, with detachment.

It's completely in line with his usual behavior; he really hates to waste time, and tonight she's grateful. She's holding steady but is still unsettled by her experience earlier, and now feels sure that bringing her daytime fantasy to play here would have been wrong. She thought that she might use her intense attraction to the nameless, faceless Rider to actually have some fun tonight, but it won't work, not after her realization that to do so would be to sling filth over her newfound ideal. As it is, now she just wants to get this job done and to go back to her unfamiliar new apartment. She's suddenly very tired.

The Entomologist turns toward her with his skinny arm outstretched, inviting her to his side, and the gesture feels like a Requiem. Marie approaches him slowly, ignoring his hand. She rests her clammy palms on the bodice of her corset and stands next to him, looking out at the Seattle lights. It's not an expensive suite but it still affords them a breathtaking view. Her reflection in the glass appears forlorn and she wonders if her face really looks this way and if this is what he sees. If it is, she's going to have to try a lot harder to get through this job. She takes a deep breath and squares her white shoulders, allowing the back of her hand to ghost along his chest and stomach. Out of the corner of her eye she can see that he's ready for her; in all their times together she's never had to work to get him hard.

He inhales deeply as her hand brushes the coarse, sparse hair on his chest and she forces down a sudden upsurge of anger. She doesn't want to be here and battles with herself, not understanding her own reaction. Steeling herself against her own apprehension, Marie turns her body towards him, resenting only herself for making this so difficult. She knows it doesn't have to be like this, and since the Entomologist is being perfectly amicable and predictably responsive to their imminent fucking, she knows the fault must lie with her. Yesterday, a lifetime ago, she would have walked into this room without an internal struggle, had perfectly mediocre and unremarkable sex with her client, and walked out with her money in her purse and the appointment already half-forgotten. Today, on the other hand, she's the perfectly messy mix of crushing regret and dangerous hope.

Deliberately pressing her palm into his bony chest, Marie grounds herself in this moment. Just like she hoped he would, he engages, his pale arm snaking around her waist and winding up the back of the corset. Her body knows what to do and she loosens her stiff back, allowing herself to be pressed against him. Marie can feel his warm breath across her collarbone as she waits for the prompts she knows are coming.

Her skin rises in warning bumps as he drags the tip of his nose along the hollow of her throat, pressing his face into her flesh while his hands grip tightly around her corseted waist. His fingers are digging into the curve of her hip; she feels them even through the stiff stays of her raven-black bodice.

"I like what you're wearing." He rasps heated breaths into her skin but doesn't put his mouth on her. "I always want you in this corset, but the rest makes you look a little... trashy. Fitting, I think."

She stifles a giggle. _The rest looks_ _trashy. A LITTLE trashy. Fitting indeed.  
_  
He has never kissed her and tonight, she's especially glad for it. Not only that, but he's already rolled on a condom, meaning she doesn't even have to touch him. She is uneasy, knowing that she shouldn't care about performing these tasks either way, and never has before. Something has fundamentally changed and a foreboding realization creeps though her like antifreeze creeping through her veins. Her hands shake at the mere thought of having to roll that condom onto his dick.

Marie has spent the entire day thinking that she's in mourning for her stupid dead dog but it's becoming really clear that something else is happening to her. Something is really off, and she wants to push this man away. She wants to hit him and spit on him and run, run out of this creepy room and race for her fucking life. Time stops while adrenalin courses through her body, scorching her nerve endings with tingly heat. All the while, his gnarled hands are pawing her, his palms are grabbing handfuls of her and he turns her body around, pressing himself into her back like a dead weight.

Before she knows how, her palms are splayed against the pane of the window, and she feels him behind her, adjusting himself against her lace-draped buttocks.

This familiar sensation brings her back, slaps her into awareness. The burgeoning panic attack abates and she can do this, she _is_ doing this, and the stupidity doing rounds in her head _has_ to stop. She braces herself against the window, white fingers spread against the dark night outside, and allows him to drive this train wreck. Usually, he's straight to the point, and she's grateful that he doesn't appear to be put off by visible signs of her reticence. Perhaps he just doesn't give a shit enough to notice that she's not even putting in the usual effort to make the appropriate sounds and movements. There's never any passion in her job, but even the most rudimentary responses are often enough to please the clients. Tonight she can't even manage those. The inky night seems to seep into the room through her fingers and numbs her, drowning her in a soporific stupor.

She stands perfectly still while his determined fingers push aside her delicate panties and he fumbles, roughly guiding his latex-sheathed dick into her from behind. She hopes it won't take long tonight and readies herself to try to make the appropriate sounds though she's not capable of reciprocating in any other way. She finds her body to be completely unresponsive and if it wasn't for the lube, this would be hideously painful.

Marie watches his bland face in the reflection of the hotel window as he pounds into her; his face is stretched into a grimace and his eyes are squeezed shut. She smirks, thinking that his dick is quite small but he's like a Terrier that pretends it's a Doberman; he's making up for lack of size with preposterous over-enthusiasm. He's fucking her roughly, erratically, and she might as well be being jostled on a bus for all the effect this is having on her. Her reflection's smirk turns into a scathing sneer at the awkward travesty in which she's participating.

As if on cue, she catches her own black eyes in that of her doppleganger superimposed on the blinking night lights of Seattle. Hypnotized by the jerking, bouncing movements of her own corseted breasts as he drives himself into her, she wants to unfocus her eyes but can't seem to manage it. She's trapped by the spectacle in the room behind her. The bigger picture dawns on her: she's in a hotel room, being fucked by a creepy freak whose real name she doesn't care to know, with her palms flattened against the window, wearing a mask and torn stockings, and she's doing it for money. _What a fairytale life this has turned out to be_, she thinks, and her lips press together in a mirthless grin while her body chokes down soundless laughter.

The Entomologist apparently takes her convulsions as some sort of encouragement and he begins to gather momentum, randomly thumping into her like a demented dervish.

_If you could see me now Daddy!_ she thinks, and suddenly finds this so funny that she can't keep it in anymore and the sounds projectile out of her like vomit. Abruptly, she's laughing so hard that her lungs hurt and the corset just about pops open at the seams from the heaving strain, but the laughter doesn't stop, it just keeps coming out of her like so much burning bile and hatred. Still locking eyes with her own reflection, the laughter morphs into cackling, dripping with contempt for herself and for him, too. Her throat aches with it, her lungs drowning in it like they're choking on puke.

The john behind her grabs her braid, wraps it around his fist like rope and pulls really hard but the laughter doesn't stop; it just keeps bubbling and gurgling out of her straining throat, and she watches as the look on his face transforms from slightly comical to something out of a horror film.

No longer pitiful, he looks like the goddamn Joker, his mouth stretched into an unnatural sneer which is all white teeth, _too many_ white fucking teeth. He looks up at her through his lashes like Jack looks at Wendy just before he tells her _'I'm not gonna hurt ya, I'm just gonna bash your brains in.'_

Abruptly her laughter dies, because this is no longer ridiculous or tragic- it's just plain fucking scary. Her hands clench tightly into fists against the window and her neck really hurts now, with how hard he's pulling her backwards by her hair. Suddenly, he releases her braid and she gasps at the brief respite, but then again at his brutality as he suddenly hooks his stumpy clawed fingers into the nape of her white neck. He snags a fistful of her hair, bruising her skin while pushing her face awkwardly into the unforgiving glass with a dull thump once, twice.

Marie cries out with sudden pain as his whole body pins hers to the glass but he doesn't relinquish his hold on her, and she watches his reflection as the tendons in his neck flex with the effort of grinding the force of his ejaculation into her.

Grunting like a wounded animal, he croaks out, "Jesus... _fuck_, " and finally releases her, her scalp tingling with relief. He stumbles behind her, almost falling, and her unrestrained hysterical laughter starts again as he staggers a few steps backwards to slump on the hotel bed. He watches her howl with pale hooded eyes and the toothy sneer is back again, sending a wave of unease up her spine.

She collects what's left of her composure and stands up straight, looking across her shoulder at him with barely veiled contempt. She should speak, should ask him if there is anything else he wants, but the words won't come out of her still heaving body.

_Why isn't he telling me to stop laughing? Why isn't he angry or offended?_

She doesn't comprehend her own reactions tonight, but she understands his even less. She's played her role with complete disgrace tonight, she's sure he won't pay her. She humiliated him with her entirely unprofessional behavior and he should be furious but instead he's just sitting there, grinning like he's about to pounce on her and bite her. Her skin feels like it's crawling off her bones and that creepy sneering leer starts to look increasingly like that of a predator bearing its teeth in a rabid rage.

Marie's absolutely desperate to get the fuck out of this room and craves fresh air on her face to wake her up from this nightmare of wrong. Her whole body is quivering on the edge of composure as she readjusts her panties. She finally turns away from him and imagines that he's rising from the bed and stalking behind her. This foreboding feeling is so strong that she can almost feel his claws grasping at the back of her neck again, and she whirls around to face him with her arms raised, ready to scratch his freaky eyes out if he should come at her, but he hasn't moved. He's still on the bed, wearing the same sneer, just watching her with forearms braced on his knees.

"Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?" she chokes out, voice hoarse and unsteady from the harsh, spewing laughter. Her upraised arms don't know what to do with themselves, and she pretends that she's adjusting her hair, though if he wasn't watching, she might be rubbing her bruised face or aching neck. There is an uncomfortable pause and she thinks he's not going to answer.

Just as she's starting to wonder if he's snapped and maybe she should be calling an ambulance, he grunts and looks away from her, beginning to remove the condom from his rapidly deflating dick.

The release she feels when she's no longer trapped in his beam is palpable. The manic feeling subsides and she's almost completely under control again. Not trusting her composure to stay in place for long, Marie walks unsteadily to the bathroom to remove the mask and get out of this freak show. She pulls the mask off her face but it's snagged in her hair and she struggles in vain to remove it; it's hanging around her neck like a noose.

She pulls at it with less and less restraint, then manically starts yanking at the elastic band trapped among her own tangled hair and screeching through locked teeth at the fucking thing to get off, get off, _get off, GET THE FUCK OFF!_ Her chest is aching with the barely restrained need to scream at the top of her lungs, to get rid of all of the frustration and checked emotion. She's half sobbing and half moaning profanities as strands of hair separate from her scalp and eventually realizes that the awful keening sound is coming from her own crimson mouth. Opening her straining jaw, she screams silently into the mirror so that the veins in her throat pop like purple cable laid under her skin and she's shaking with rage and frustration, fingers clawed into her own head.

Panting with the exertion of her outburst, Marie looks into the eyes of her own reflection as though there might be answers in them. She notices that her pallid face is already bruising from contact with the hard glass when he roughed her up earlier. The redness spans her cheekbone and the sight of it sobers her; she stares at the spreading stain to get a grip on herself.

It's slowly working; her breathing is calming and she's no longer sucking lungfuls of air like a panicking phobic. Her over-glossy eyes are less frantic and regaining their lackluster expression. Reaching for her elbow, Marie pinches and squeezes, bringing a fresh wave of pain from the bruise she inflicted on herself earlier that day while unpacking. The dull ache doesn't cut through but it's enough to slap her back into the present.

She pans her eyes north to her hair and her shoulders sag as she realizes the extent of the damage. It's like a Greek myth exploded on her head; matted brown ropes extend out in every direction like Medusa's coiled snakes. The mask hangs limply from within her massacred braid, the elastic tucked around one ear and across her throat, mocking her with its triumphant refusal to be dislodged.

She sighs and that one small sound is enough to bring her some focus. She needs to get the fuck out of this room and out of this hotel without people staring at her bitch-fight hair, and then call Victoria. She's not sure what she will say to her when they speak, but call her she must. There is no one else.

Determined now, spurred on by her need to get out of there, Marie scans the bathroom. Her bag, coat and scarf are hanging on the back of the door, and she unwinds the scarf with still-shaking pallid hands. Finally, mercifully, she is able to pull the mask up over her face and just lays it over the top of her head, patting down the damage somewhat. The scarf ties in a neat triangle over her head and she secures it with a small knot under her chin. Wiping a damp finger under her eyes removes some of the smudged make-up but the rest will have to wait until she's soaking in her bathtub. Remembering that she has a date with the tub brings her out of the hole a little bit. She looks over into the mirror once more as she wraps herself into her coat, then strides purposefully out of the bathroom, ready to placate the Entomologist with some awkward banter if needed.

The door swings open, and she searches for his fish-eyes, almost expecting him to be tucked into a corner like a creepy spider. He is nowhere to be found. The room is empty.

There is an envelope on the bed: her money. Marie walks slowly towards it, still panning the room for him, then finally expels a sign of relief. He's gone, probably embarrassed by her disgustingly amateur display. She is incredulous that he has still paid her. Checking the envelope, she finds that he has left her usual fee, in full. Tucking the envelope into the pocket of her coat, she slides dark glasses onto her bruised face, wraps herself in nonchalance and slinks out of the room like a furtive junkie movie star.

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**A/N:** As before, thank you very much for reading. Readers of the last chapter expressed some interest in receiving a teaser for this story, so I will continue to reply to reviews with a short snippet.

**Monday, 17th Jan, 2011:** The Queensland floods have seen Australians lose everything, including loved ones. Many people are still missing and some families have watched their homes swept aways into nothing from underneath them. **Fandoms Fight the Floods** are raising money to help. I will be contributing an outtake from this story to a compilation of oneshots being assembled by writers from many fandoms, including Twilight. If my contributing doesn't turn you off, perhaps you'd be interested in making a $5 donation here: **http : / fandomsfightthefloods (dot) blogspot (dot) com**


	6. Portend

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions._

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**NB:** It was brought to my attention that an important piece of info had dropped off the introduction of the first chapter following the Prologue. Although I've now reinstated it, those of you that have been reading from the beginning, might not have known that the events in the Prologue take place 10 days after the events in the following chapters. My apologies for any confusion.

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Clasping the tattered remainders of her composure to her like a malfunctioning shield, Marie walks out of that tainted beige room and into the overly bright hallway, then disappears into the stairwell. Her steps fall softly on the steps and it's almost poetic that she follows the descending stairs in a downward spiral. She anticipates the moment when the smooth soles of her boots lose purchase on the carpeted stairs and she plummets down, head over heels. A little part of her mind registers mild surprise when she reaches the ground floor in one piece, and makes it out of the hotel's grand entrance without attracting unwanted attention.

Her dignity is long gone and she imagines it lying like molted snake-skin on the floor of the hotel room behind her, as she hurtles forward through the brightly lit night streets. She can't bear to get in a cab, can't imagine fitting her distressed, smeared face back into the everyday world and something as banal as a cab ride. Running like demons are nipping at her heels, she feels no pain until she's very suddenly struggling for breath, her lungs attempting to pull air through a constricted throat and past that goddamn corset. She slows down to a stagger, finally coming to a stop against a dimly lit building, chest heaving with unvoiced screams.

Her self-disgust is so fierce, so violent, that it's like a crack in her ribcage, a black hole in her soul that sucks in everything around it, a place where she is nothing but the trash she portrays in this grisly play. Leaning against the cold building, Marie bends to take off her boots. The relief is immediate because while they look great, they're certainly not meant for running and it's a miracle that she hasn't fallen and twisted her ankle, or worse.

She knows she must keep moving and so she does. Barefoot now, she flees clutching her boots to her chest like a black vinyl baby, awkward and squeaky in her clammy hands. She stumbles through alleys and streets, barely aware of her surroundings, rushing past faceless people on the sidewalks. She knows roughly which way to go, though the location of her new apartment is not exactly clear. A sense of self preservation kicks in and she begins to around more carefully, trying to get her bearings. Digging out her phone, she references her position on GPS, realizing with great relief that she's not far from her new home and safety, but although the cab ride to the hotel took only minutes, getting back on foot will take much longer.

Being within reach of her sanctuary completely destroys her fractured armor and she's running again, tears cutting a wet path through the pink stains on her cheeks. By the time she makes it to her apartment building she's sobbing with relief for having found it and for the heart-shattering breakdown she's about to have. She feels it coming at her like a runaway train. Instead of going up to the unfamiliar new apartment, she runs straight into the dark courtyard and to the mural, sinking down onto the ground next to the painted wall. This place feels safe and oddly familiar, as though she's been coming here all her life and not at all as if she'd just discovered it earlier that day.

Sitting with her shoulders braced against the brick wall, Marie drops the bundle of boots and bawls into her fists, hot tears tracking down her cheeks. She sobs uncontrollably, her breath hitching painfully against her seared heart. She doesn't even know why she's crying except it's the culmination of all the fear and denial she's been holding onto for years. It's all catching up with her in this moment of weakness, helping her to abandon herself to the mechanics of her misery.

Her arms are clutched around her corseted body but this feels too much like _holding it in_ and she needs to let it all out so badly that she unfurls her arms, spins toward the wall and lays her face against the brick, torso splayed flat over the graffiti. In her grief and loneliness, she embraces the mural like it's a friend.

Her bruised face aches as each wracking sob rubs it against the rough surface. Marie realizes she thought of her father earlier tonight, and her mind lets the memory hit the mark this time; she misses her Daddy. She cries harder, thinking of the crisp scent of his clean police uniform enveloping her little seven year old self as he hugs her, neither of them knowing it's for the last time.

The hug is nothing special, just a temporary goodbye while he goes off to work, having dropped her off at a babysitter's house. What would they have said to each other if they'd known Police Chief Swan wouldn't live to see another day? It doesn't really matter. It would be just another moment with him, another precious memory to hold onto, of a little girl and her dad. A memory of belonging.

She wishes so hard, just as she has for the last sixteen years, that there were more memories of him in her useless head. She's not sure if it's the truth or if her mind is glossing over the bad memories in an attempt to cling to something good, but she believes that he loved her. Many years passed with her trying to repress these memories because of the amount of pain they caused her, and she realizes that somewhere along the line she's forgotten the exact color of his eyes, the tilt of his chin. She remembers his scent and being sheltered in the safety of his arms, but so much has gone. She knows that this is probably something that happens over time anyway, but deep inside, she cries for the fleeting memories that she has allowed to slip away, and blames herself for their loss and for not respecting their sanctity. She wishes she could recall the timbre of his voice.

Marie can't imagine what her father would think of her now, if he were still alive. This idea scraped through into her consciousness at the hotel earlier and it has the potential to ruin her with its implications. He would be ashamed and deeply humiliated to have a daughter like her, of that she is sure. She used to have to try so hard not to think about him if she could help it; it made her intensely uncomfortable to confront herself like that. In recent years though, it has taken no effort at all. It has become second nature.

She has become the image of all the things he fought against while he was alive. She's the epitome of dark to his light. She's like the man who shot him, the man who would rather take a human life than give back a stolen car, because she is the woman who found a way to control an aspect of her life by selling it to others. The paradox seems ludicrous, insane.

It was the easy choice all those years ago, one she made instinctively to ensure her own survival. But now, many years later, she has never reassessed herself or confronted her choices. She knows now, as an adult, why she took this path; her life's every turn and each decision was made by others, sometimes not with her best interest at heart. Even when they wanted to do right by her, they all failed her in the most fundamental way - none of them were capable of loving her or showing her more than cursory kindness. How could they be? They hardly knew her. The one person who could and did love her, was gone. The rest of them were just passing her around until she was old enough to fend for herself and save them the trouble.

The brick wall has grown wet with her tears and warm with her grief. She's slumped and sobbing against it with the tips of her fingers jammed desperately into the mortar groove between bricks. She can feel her sore cheek grazing on it and causing more damage to the steadily rising bruise, but the pain keeps her grounded and alert, so she turns her cheek into it and allows it to serve as a reminder that this is who she is and that this is her life. She digs her fingers into the rough mortar and feels the brittle grit pushing under her fingernails. Even this pain is welcome. She deserves nothing less.

"I'm so sorry, Daddy," she breathes into the wall, her whole body shuddering with the devastating sobs. "I'm so sorry I let you down."

She suddenly realizes that she hasn't been to see Charlie at the cemetery since he was laid to rest there sixteen years ago. The thought is sobering, startling. She's never been back to pay her respects, not even when she was old enough to do so at her own leisure. _Well, why would he want that?_ It was better to have left there as a seven year old. At least he would have recognized the child she had been. He certainly wouldn't know her _now_. She doesn't want to show him what she has become, would never want him to meet _Marie_. She feels like she buried her childhood-self right along with Chief Swan.

As the force of her grief abates, she finally begins to register the full measure of pain throughout her body. Her corset has been chafing at the sensitive skin under her arms and she feels grated raw there. Her bare feet are a mess: freezing cold, the toes completely numb, gravel embedded into one of her heels and her stockings torn to shreds. Her neck and scalp ache insistently now, with the adrenalin of running long since worn off. She's tired and hungry, and she can't believe she ran all the way here from the hotel. She has no sense of time, nor her place in it.

Ever so slowly, Marie uncurls her clutching fingers from between the bricks. They're filthy and stiff and she groans with the effort of straightening and stretching her hands. Her chest is still hitching with irregular spasms although she has calmed down considerably. She can't recollect when she last cried with such abandon and release. The sheer force of expelling all that grief and hurt has left her with a pounding headache and she just wants to curl up into a tiny ball somewhere like a little sick animal. She braces her hands against the wall and pushes herself off, resting on her palms for a moment, carefully unfolding herself from the ground. She tests her weight on her stiff legs and stands gingerly, rolling and stretching an aching foot. Resting her shoulder against the wall for a moment, she looks up through the branches of the tree in the courtyard to the window of her apartment and startles violently.

There is someone inside her apartment, at her window.

Her reaction is instinctively to freeze. Just as she catches a glimpse of a dark silhouette; it disappears as suddenly as if it were never there. She can't quite believe what she's seeing, and shifts her weight slightly on her feet, finding a gap between the branches of the tree so she has an unobscured line of vision. Seeing nothing, she creeps slowly toward the building, while her heart beats a wild and erratic tattoo inside her ribcage, threatening to burst through her chest.

Slowly and silently, clutching her boots to herself, she sneaks toward her apartment. Looking up the stairwell, she climbs each step with stealth borne of fear. Approaching her doorway, Marie suddenly realizes that she has no idea what she might do if she were to find somebody in her apartment. If someone_ is_ in there, no doubt they can hear the hammering of her heart on approach. The door to her apartment is closed just as she left it earlier in the evening. Maybe she was imaging things; she's certainly not in her right mind at the moment.

Fishing her key from her purse and fitting it soundlessly into the lock, she leans into the door and softly pushes her whole body against it, trying to enter silently. The door responds by giving a loud pop as it disengages from the snug frame and she curses inwardly - any element of surprise she may have had is now lost. If there's someone here, they now know she's here too. There are two choices: continue or retreat. A retreat is pointless as she has nowhere to go._ L__et the pattern of self-confrontation continue_. She enters the door, leaving it open behind her, figuring that an intruder trapped in here with her is more dangerous than one that has an easy escape route available.

Marie stands in the hall for a moment, getting her bearings in the still unfamiliar apartment, remembering the layouts of rooms and adjusting her eyes to the level of darkness. Fear-fueled adrenalin is helping her think clearly and she makes a beeline for the kitchen, specifically, for her knife block. She quietly unloads her armful of boots into the sink and curls both hands around the handle of a large knife. She begins moving around the dark apartment, carving the way forward with the point of a blade.

She checks behind doors and inside cupboards and under the bed, creeping through the apartment on her toes, her whole body bowing around the knife. Room by room she finds nothing, no indication that there is anyone else in there, or even that there had been. The whole night has put her in such a state of agitation that she just can't seem to shake that feeling of being watched, being stalked.

It's almost as if the eerie eyes of the Entomologist are still burning into the back of her neck. The sensation makes the hair on her arms stand up and her skin tingles with it. Suddenly she's like a rabbit that knows it's being hunted by the fox, she wants to break into a wild sprint, though she knows she can't possibly outrun it. She spins around sharply with the knife held in shaking hands before her, expecting it to slice into the intruder. She finds an empty dark room instead. She releases a ragged breath, lowering the knife slightly. She has been through the entire apartment and found nothing.

"It's okay. You're okay. It's okay. I'm okay..."

Gathering her wits and muttering positive affirmations under her breath, Marie runs to the front door and locks it, then walks from room to room turning on all the lights she can find. In the kitchen, she sets the knife down on the bench-top with a clang, then pokes through still-packed cartons to find some pain relief. She forces down Advil, followed by a glass of water and rubs small circles into her aching temples, softly palpitating the bruise on her cheek with the pad of her thumb. Stray strands of matted hair fall into her eyes and she twists them around her fingers, tucking them in between the plaited strands of braid, as though it matters what she looks like. She almost laughs out loud with the thought of how ridiculous that is. She tries to absorb everything that has happened tonight, but there is so much to process that there just doesn't seem to be enough space in her head to comprehend it. She feels overwrought and completely drained. She stands at the sink for what seems like a long time, just reflecting on the state of her overwhelmed mind.

Eventually, physical necessities force her away from the kitchen. She really needs to get these rags off and clean herself up and then hopefully drop into a coma-like sleep. Marie makes her way to the bathroom and draws a bath. She hasn't had time to buy anything to use in it, so it's just hot, clear water and lavender bar soap tonight.

She looks at herself in the mirror and recoils from the sight; she's like a literal interpretation of Munch's _'The Scream.'_ The bleary and swollen eyes that scrutinize her from the mirror are like tiny dull pinpricks within a smear of thick black paint. Her hair is in complete pandemonium, there are knotted wispy tangles hanging every which way, and that hideous reminder of her disgrace; the mask, is still there and seemingly stuck on top of her head. Sighing, she begins the task of disentangling it from her hair.

Marie works slowly with sore and stiff fingers, separating the mask from the remainder of her braid strand by strand. She observes herself in the mirror as her hair becomes her own again. She fully appreciates the symbolism of these actions; she needs to untangle the decisions that have led her to this point in her life and find a new path. She can't continue as she is; if she does it will kill her, she knows that now. The floodgates to the past have been opened, and she can't stop thinking about Charlie and Sparky... and what's more is that she _wants _to think about them,_ wants_ to remember them.

It's hard work to live in denial, and forcing down emotion has taught her how to stay numb, but not how to deal with them, which is what she has to do now to move forward. She can't seem to reconcile the Marie of today with a person who holds those memories dear and close to her heart without shame. Maybe there can't be a reconciliation. She glares at herself in the mirror and wonders how to get her life back. Finally, she manages to remove the elastic from her hair, the mask softly drifting into the vanity sink as she releases it from reddened, numb fingers.

Before she can relax, she needs to call Victoria. She would normally have called her to check in immediately following her 'date', but the routine call had completely slipped her mind due to the unfolding drama. She pads back to the kitchen and retrieves her phone from the bundle she dropped into the kitchen sink when she got home. She checks the time and is surprised to find it's almost midnight; the whole night has been such a blur. She wanders into the living room as her fingers dial Victoria's number and waits only two rings before the call is accepted. She sits on the edge of the couch, her body still held stiffly erect within the corset.

"Marie." Victoria acknowledges, then pauses.

"Hi... I need to, uh... I need to... " Marie is not even sure of what she wants to say. Her voice is hoarse from crying and a wave of shame rolls over her. She feels like she owes this woman so much and doesn't want to let her down. She rubs the heel of her free palm across her face and winces as her grazed cheek releases a fresh sting.

"Is there a problem?" a slight note of concern reaches Victoria's voice.

"No. Well, yes. I don' know. You might get a complaint... if you haven't already." Marie doesn't want to divulge what happened earlier, but realizes that it's only fair to keep Victoria appraised of the situation that might potentially cause the agency problems. She continues, haltingly.

"I'm not sure what's happening to me right now but I think I need to stop working. I need to have a break to, um... you know, just to get my head together. It was awful tonight and he might call you and complain. I'm really sorry, I'm not really sure what to do-"

Marie is grateful when Victoria interrupts her bumbling with an even, measured voice. "I have _not_ had a complaint. Maybe it's not as bad as you think it is. What happened? Did something happen?"

_Yes. I'm losing my goddamn mind._ "No... it's not what happened, it's just that I didn't... well, I'm just really jumpy right now, I'm just not myself." _Truer words have never been spoken._ Marie holds back a snort, but Victoria doesn't miss the tone of her voice and sighs.

"Marie, you should have told me this earlier today. I know that some things have put you on edge, you shouldn't have gone out tonight if you needed more time."

"Yes, it's just that I thought it would help to... keep busy. I didn't want to sit around just thinking, you know?"

No, she hadn't wanted to think about her friend or her dad, or even the unattainable ideal of the Rider. But things have definitely changed. Now she wants to think about everything until her brain either rights itself or explodes. She doesn't want to just survive anymore; she wants to live an actual life. She feels like her body is exuding invisible strands in every direction, and she needs to pull on each one to see where it leads. There must be something that connects her to life, and to hope. She realizes that Victoria is speaking and snaps out of her internal monologue.

"...was something wrong. Why don't we meet for lunch and see if there's anything I can do to help."

_Lunch_. Victoria wants to meet for lunch, as though a little chat might fix everything. Marie grimaces, massaging her head with her hand. The Advil is beginning to work on her headache and helps her think more clearly.

She needs to tell Victoria the rest, even if she only skims over it.

"He was rough with me."' She halts, unsure of how much she should say, but realizing that he might behave this way with another girl and she needs to say something. "My face. It's bruised."

"He hit you?" Victoria's voice is even, the emotion unchanged.

"No... not really. He was just a bit rough and I hit my face. It's no big deal." _It's not, is it?_

There is no point arguing about this tonight. She's so over it, she could just walk away from everything right now. She agrees to a lunch date, the day is confirmed, a convenient location set. Victoria promptly hangs up.

Marie has come away from this conversation with a distinct feeling that she hadn't been taken seriously. Sighing, she drops the phone to the couch and returns to the bathroom.

She unzips herself from the corset and tosses it to the floor, breathing deeply with great relief. So much so, that her head spins with the oxygen rush. She steadies herself against the sink, then completes her earlier work on the laddered stockings and just rips them from her legs. Her feet are really aching now, from running barefoot over rough ground and from the cold. When she steps into the scalding hot bath, it's like descending into a blazing bonfire.

The burning pain forces a yelp out of her but she doesn't stop, slowly lowering her whole body into the enveloping heat, knowing that the burning sensation will abate once her chilled skin gets used to the temperature of the water. The chafed skin under her arms protests the most and she knows that she'll need to dress it, or at least soothe it with some ointment later. Once she's in, Marie's slim body disappears completely beneath the surface, hands floating in the gently rippling water like lily leaves on a still pond.

She hoped to have this bath with candles lit in the room, but isn't prepared to turn out the lights to get the effect. Instead, she closes her eyes tightly and the view of the stark bathroom is instantly replaced with the bright peach of the inside of her eyelids. Eventually, with her thoughts full of Sparky's dimpled cheeks and her father's enveloping arms, she drifts into a state nearing sleep.

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**A/N:** Thank you very much for reading. Just to reiterate, the events of these past chapters are happening 10 days before the events described in the Prologue.


	7. Linger

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions._

* * *

Dappled morning light suffuses the bedroom as Marie slowly wakes.

She stretches languidly, leisurely, like a cat. Her sleep was unusually dreamless, as she has been consistently waking early and suffering from nightmares for several weeks now. Sharp stinging of the sensitive skin under her arms brings a sudden end to the drowsy moment between sleeping and waking. Instantly, events of the previous evening are restored to the forefront of her mind. Her eyes snap open with alarm and she rises on her elbows to quickly take in her surroundings, not sure what she'll find there.

Her apartment is quiet, all the lights are still on, and there's no sense of an intruder. It's early, and the bright sunlight is speckled as it filters through the foliage of the tree outside her window. With a sigh, Marie collapses back onto the bed, her eyes following the random shadowy patterns made on her walls as the leaves outside flutter and dance on a light breeze. Her eyes are still swollen from crying. Her eyelids feel puffy and sore and her cheek begins to throb the moment she thinks about it. Gingerly, she touches her aching face and assesses the soreness with the pads of her fingers. She tests her feet, stretching them one at a time, and winces.

It's a peculiar pain, this stinging of abused skin and overtaxed muscles, and Marie stretches her feet again to test the pain boundary. Her physique is lean but soft, and the sudden burst of exertion last night has morphed into stiffness that has settled into her body overnight. The longer she holds the stretch, the closer she comes to a cramp. She relents just as she begins to feel the crescendo of pain, and finally relaxes her feet. Eventually, she forces herself to sit up. Her little apartment doesn't seem at all threatening in the bright light of day. The dread she felt last night seems silly now, _doesn't it?_

A pause. _No. It doesn't._

She brushes a hand across her face to gather up loose hair, then allows it to follow the contours of her throat and breast and looks down to realize that she's completely naked, having crawled out of the bath in a barely lucid state the previous evening. The chill of the water woke her up hours after she first lowered herself into its scalding heat, and she barely dried off before cocooning her aching and cold body into the sheets and blankets of her bed. She has slept like the dead, despite the scare.

She remembers with perfect clarity the moment of horror creeping up her spine when she thought there was someone inside her apartment, looking down at her in the courtyard from her own window. The hair on the back of her neck stands up when she recalls the shape of a person outlined against the curtains, and the rush of sickly adrenalin coursing through her veins while she crept through the place, convinced of an intruder's presence.

Stepping down from her bed, Marie finally puts weight onto her battered feet. She dresses with care, choosing clothes that are loose and won't rub on her injured skin. A part of her wonders why she's getting out of bed at all; it would be so much easier to just shake off the histrionics, climb back into the safety of sleep and wake up in time to visit a client this evening. She shakes her head silently as though to expel the thought, aware that there's no going back. It would be like manhandling a cadaver under a rug, then tripping over it for years to come.

Something inside her has changed and can't be unchanged.

Standing by the kitchen window, she looks down at the mural below. She can barely see it from this window; it's mostly obscured by a huge, leafy branch. The colors seep through the foliage like a tantalizing mystery. She fills a glass with water at the kitchen tap and drinks it slowly, thinking. Something snags at the edge of her mind, but she can't grasp it, can't pin it down to a tangible thought. She knows it's important somehow, but the more she concentrates on it, the less distinct it is. Her mind is still foggy with sleep and from the stress of last night's frantic flight.

Marie moves through the apartment in a daze, not quite knowing what to do with herself. She knows that she needs to call Victoria again and insist on cancelling any and all future appointments which might be made for her but dreads making the call; she's not sure how to explain what's happened so that she doesn't sound like a total fucking drama queen. Having tried last night, she knows this won't be easy. Victoria is cut from black and white- there are no shades of grey. She would probably think Marie has gone nuts to turn her back on a lucrative job, which ironically, has kept her off the streets for the last five years. After all, if it wasn't for their fluke meeting on the streets of Seattle all those years ago, Marie, if not long dead, would be turning tricks in the backseats of cars instead of being a popular escort representing Victoria's established and much respected agency.

Marie instantly feels a pang of guilt, knowing that although a tangible financial debt doesn't exist, she still owes Victoria a lot. She doesn't want to let Victoria down but feels like her defenses have been irrevocably breached, and the barrier which stood so firm to separate Chief Swan's little daughter from Marie-the-Prostitute has crumbled to dust. She has to reconcile those two people somehow, and the nature of this profession is the clearest division between them. She didn't realize how fractured her existence was until now.

She needs to get out of the apartment, maybe get some fresh air to clear her head. Perhaps she could go downstairs to see the mural again and deliberate against the soothing, colorful roughness. It's almost as though this day is the first that really belongs to her; deciding not to go back to her job makes her back straighter, her burden lighter. She feels a sure determination that this is the right decision; stepping off the edge of the world she knows and trusting herself to swim, not sink. There's no going back. She nods to herself as if to reinforce this in her own mind. She's going to sit at the mural and clear her head, then make the call.

Slipping her sore feet into comfortable, worn flats, her eyes happen upon the creased and dogeared book; her clandestine find from yesterday. It's perfect; she's going to sit by the mural and read. It feels like the exact right thing to do, and she's all about following her instincts lately.

She walks out of her apartment full of purpose now, a sense of calm descending like a reassuring blanket, _'The Name of the Rose'_ forming a pleasantly bulky shape in her hand. Downstairs, the emerald mural is just as beautiful and just as mysterious; she still can't make out the words. Again, she wonders if it's purposely cryptic, or if you just have to be a graffiti artist to understand it. Maybe they can all easily read each others perplexing work. She smiles at it with narrowed eyes, as though it's a particularly tricky puzzle, one that she's determined to solve. Running her palm along its surface feels like greeting a friend, and a sense of fondness and familiarity worms its way into her heart. The mural has found a place there, alongside Sparky's dimples and her father's loving presence.

She spends the rest of the morning there, the time passing imperceptibly in the sun's warmth, protected by the whispering green canopy above her. The book is like an old friend because she's read it countless times, but this particular copy is not hers, and it fascinates her to see that its owner has placed different marks on it, making this one their own. It is a different edition and the graphic on the cover is different from her own; she's oddly charmed by the idea that this is the same book that she knows and loves, just in a different skin.

She reads the passages in a pleasant blanket of familiarity, excited by the (admittedly unlikely) possibility that this book belongs to the very memorable auburn-haired Rider. Like herself, the owner of this book likes to make notes on the margin, and she spends ages trying to decipher the loops of annotating script, fascinated and increasingly respectful of the intelligence and insight they show into the complex narrative.

When pangs of hunger penetrate into her consciousness, Marie is suddenly ravenous and wondering how long she's been sheltering beside the mural. It would be easy enough to go back upstairs and fix herself a sandwich. She slowly gets up, meaning to do just that. As she sweeps her hand over her jeans to dislodge some leaves from her behind, Marie looks up to her windows, and freezes.

It didn't really occur to her earlier, but if in fact there was an intruder inside her apartment last night, then they were standing in her _bedroom_ window. It's the only window facing the courtyard which is not mostly obscured by the tree. The only other vantage point would be the kitchen, but that window is much smaller, and she distinctly remembers seeing a murky, but unmistakable and almost whole human figure. The kitchen window is much too small for that. _This_ is the nagging feeling, the loose thought that has been circling like tumbleweed through her mind,_ this_ is the one she couldn't grasp.

The creeping dread which so unsettled her last night is back, and even in this bright sunshine, it's unbearably eerie and cloying. Any desire to go back up there to eat something has completely abandoned her, and so Marie stands next to the mural, clasping the book to her, suddenly looking vulnerable and oh-so-little-girlish and young, much younger than her twenty-three jaded years. She looks up at that window with her wide, dark eyes and wonders if the time to pay for her fucked-up life has finally come. The feeling of impending doom has been hanging over her head like a Damocles sword for weeks now, and nothing she has done since it began to haunt her has changed her course. Moving here has not changed anything. If there was an intruder in her apartment last night, then somehow, along with Mike's murder and the crude vandalism of her car as well as the myriad of other creepy incidents, it's just another link in the same fatalistic chain.

Without pausing further to really deliberate this nascent idea of fate coming for her, she begins to walk away from the building. _Anywhere but here_, she thinks, and it's all she can do to stop herself from glancing back like Lot's wife, to see her destruction coming to claim her.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Two cups of tea and a half-eaten salad later, Marie sits alone at Blondie's, her eyes unfocused and staring blankly through the window. She has watched the passing traffic with little interest through the afternoon, trying to keep her growing unease about the call she has to make at bay.

Though the idea was undefined when she first arrived, she hoped to see the Rider here. It would have been oddly satisfying to get a really good look at him close up under the pretext of returning the book, should it be his. She asked the petite waitress quietly if anyone has come looking for a missing book, but nobody has. Maybe he's not a regular. Maybe he was just passing through. She's too embarrassed to ask, because what if he_ is_ a regular? What if her enquiries get back to him somehow? Worse still, what is he's _not_? What if he was passing through and will never be back again? She doesn't want to know.

Her cellphone sits on the table in front of her like dread personified. Her hand extends towards it, fingers grasping it loosely. She picks it up and prepares to flick through the few names in her address book to get to 'V', but the first name on the list is like a little beacon of blissful delay, and she dials Alec instead. Knowing that it's only delaying the inevitable, she still hopes that speaking to Alec first will help put her in the right frame of mind. He's such an indelicate bastard, and his general irreverence never fails to amuse and distract her.

"Yeah." He answers on the third ring and Marie realizes that he's out somewhere. It's noisy in the background and the preoccupied way in which he answers the phone puts him in a shop full of people. In his own words, if there's one thing Alec loves more than cock, it's shopping. These are atop his list of 5 favorite things, closely followed by food, cock, and more cock. It's a succinct list, with no pretensions. Alec loves his job, and he's very, _very_ good at it.

"Hey." She tries to keep her tone light.

"To what do I owe this rare pleasure?" His voice is tempered and deceptively monotone. The quiet, dry way he speaks coupled with his boyish voice makes him seem shy but this couldn't be further from the truth.

"I should think that you were calling to thank me for my wonderful company a few nights ago." He stops, letting his words sink in before continuing.

"But since you burned me and didn't show at the club, I should think that you're calling to apologize." He pauses dramatically for effect. She begins to speak but he interrupts her, "_However_, since that was days ago with no attempt from you to contact me, your apology is rather late, and I _do not_ accept it." Wincing, she recalls that she was indeed supposed to be meeting Alec at a bar several nights ago, but instead she came home from a 'date' to find a very dead little dog.

"I'm sorry... I had an emergency and I forgot that we were supposed to meet up. I didn't mean to bail on you." She pauses and tries to think of a way to tone down her feelings but there is no easy way to say it. The words just tumble out. "Mike is dead... somebody killed him. I had to move." She might as well be standing face-to-face with Alec; in her mind's eye she can see exactly what he looks like right now. With a hand on his skinny-jeaned hip, he's a little hunched over and leaning into the phone, his eyes wide in shock and an exclamation just hanging from his soft, boyish lips.

"Someone killed your dog? How! Wait... you moved? Where the hell are you?"

"Not far... I just had to get out of that apartment. Victoria and Riley helped set it up. Some asshole poisoned him, Alec. I don't know who."

"So, maybe he ate something by accident, like rat poison or something. How do you know someone did it to him? That's fucking horrible!"

"Believe me, I'd rather think it was an awful accident, but he was in my apartment! There was nothing poisonous he could have eaten. You should have seen him Alec, the poor little bastard." Marie's voice gets quieter as she speaks, until she's whispering. She blinks her eyes rapidly, trying to stop the waterworks. She's cried more in the past week than... well, ever. "Look, I didn't call to have a big cry about Mike, and I'm sorry I bailed the other night, but that's not why I'm calling either." She steels herself with a big breath, then ploughs ahead, about to test her news on a sympathetic audience.

"I'm quitting."

There. It's done. She waits for Alec's reaction, the adrenalin generated by saying those two words out loud is staggering. She feels a little sick at the complete silence on the other end of the line and her heart is pounding wildly against her ribcage.

"Uh-huh," he finally says matter-of-factly, like he's waiting for the punchline.

"I'm... I can't... I don't want to do this any more. I'm just... done." Her heart is hammering in her chest, and she realizes that she's about to confide in Alec, when for the most part their friendship is about laughing it off, glossing over it, flipping off life like it doesn't matter.

It's a lightweight friendship, with the fucking of strangers being the common ground. They talk about men, dicks and lube. They bitch about Victoria and the percentage she keeps and together they wonder about her and Aro, the Ghoul. They compare notes and they remind each other never to fuck without a wrapper. What they don't do is cry and confide, much less divulge any truths. She doesn't want to get emotional but she can't help herself; the tears are right there, waiting to be shed. She can't believe she has any left in her.

"I've been having this dream Alec, and I can't shake it. It's like a message or something. I think it's supposed to be a message." Fat tears roll down her cheeks, and she knows she's losing it again. Hanging onto shreds of dignity, she snatches the book from the table once again and shoves it under her arm, leaves money on the table and rushes out of the cafe before anyone sees her crying.

She thinks back to the dream that haunts her, the one she's been having over and over these past weeks. It's a small mercy that she didn't wake up screaming again last night, maybe it was exhaustion from her mad dash. Ruefully, she makes a note to get more exercise and see if it helps her keep the nightmares at bay.

"I'm done with smelly fucking johns and their goddamn sob stories. I don't care whose wife doesn't give head anymore! I don't ever want to walk into a fucking room again and have to pretend that I like this shit Alec, I'm just so fucking over it. I'm just... I don't even know what to do anymore. I just walk in there and I know I'm gonna get fucked and I just don't even care, Alec! I'm not even there half the time when some asshole puts his dick in me, and it's not safe that I'm not looking out for myself, it's just so fucking wrong, and I can't... I can't... "

She doesn't even notice when she raised her voice above the whisper, but she's almost shouting now, the raw emotion just punching through her gut and flowing out with fresh tears that just keep coming. She thinks about the situation she put herself in last night, with the creepy Entomologist, and how ill-equipped she was to handle it. What if he'd really tried to hurt her, not just rough her up a little bit? She didn't even have her wits about her. It was so stupid, and she feels like a moron for letting it happen. This life is all about wariness, being cagey and aware of everything around you, because you're so vulnerable. Marie has broken her own cardinal rule. She got emotional. It just got too hard to box it up and put it away. She's like the old hoarder who stacks bundles of newspapers up against every available surface only to have them spontaneously combust and burn the goddamn house down, having never actually read them. It's double-fucked.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, the outpouring stops, and she's reached a new level of understanding. She stops walking and wipes her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt like a kid, collecting herself.

"I know what I am, I'm not trying to deny it." She pauses her exposition, thinking, and trying to grasp the thought so it enlightens her before she loses the meaning of it. "I'm just starting to think that there must be more. There has to be more to me._ I_ have to be more. I'm sick of looking at myself."_ I don't even know who I am._

This conversation is not about telling Alec she's quitting, it's about voicing out loud the thoughts that had only manifested themselves as a general revulsion up till now. She's a worthless piece of shit, but she doesn't have to be every other asshole's worthless piece of shit.

Alec's silence tells her everything she needs to know; he's not equipped to deal with this, they're just not that close. He has no problem with taking it up the ass; he'd be doing it anyway. It's just that this way, his regular 'boyfriends' pay for his Gucci and his habit, not him. This way, his ass is so good that people will throw money at it so his nose is always powdered. He couldn't really begin to understand her internal conflict right now.

Marie never really had a problem with this and she hasn't judged Alec for the lifestyle he leads; how could she? But somehow, she's never even spent the money she's earned. Wads of it sit in shoe boxes and envelopes in her apartment. It doesn't even make any sense. If she told Alec about this, he'd laugh at her, so she says nothing.

Instead, she helps him out by taking the heat off him; she never really expected him to understand. "Look, I'm just letting you know that I'm not going to be around, okay? I'm calling Victoria next. I just didn't want you to... um, worry about me." This sounds hokey, even to her. Alec doesn't do worried. He didn't even call when she didn't show up to meet him.

"Sure, Marie, okay. Well... you know, call me if you..." It's obvious that he doesn't even know what to say. His inability to comprehend her state of mind makes her suddenly eager to get off the phone. The whole conversation has been a bit embarrassing, really. She should have known better than to bother, and can't remember why she did.

"Yeah. Take care, okay? Maybe I'll be in touch." _But I probably won't_. She hangs up without waiting for his answer.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

For the second time that afternoon, she holds the phone loosely in her palm like it's about to bite her. _Fuck it. Just do it._

Victoria doesn't let it ring long, and Marie soon finds herself having the same conversation, except this time it's without all the tears. Victoria's detached tone makes it easy to stay on track as Marie recounts last night's incident again.

"No, he didn't really hurt me. It's just that he was so creepy... there was just something so wrong about him last night." She puts on a silly, drawn-out Vincent Price horror voice to lighten up the conversation a little, "Like he was Satan's dog, waiting for a cue from his master."

Victoria snorts. It's not the first nor last time she'll discuss the quirks of a client or has to reassure one of her girls. She senses Marie is deeply upset but tries to keep it light for both their sakes. "Was he speaking in tongues, Marie? You could have made that work for you."

It's Marie's turn to snort. "God, I wish he did, it would make for a far more interesting story. Look... " Marie pauses, not quite knowing how to come to the point of this, without making it sounds like it was only last night's incident that has fucked her up, even though it's a major ingredient. "I know this will sound really weird and all, I know we briefly discussed this last night, but I need to stop working. I need you to take me off the books."

Victoria sighs, the silence at her end stretching while she considers. "What will you do?" she asks quietly. This is also not the first time that she's had this conversation and she knows that it's not necessarily the end of a working relationship. She exudes amiable acceptance, the exterior of a friend. For now.

"I don't know. Just... not this. I haven't really thought about it."

Now, this _is_ unusual. Usually, the girls who leave harbor dreams of bigger and better things, sometimes unattainable things, like a modeling career, if spreading for Playboy could be called either. Sometimes it's porn. Maybe this is serious after all, because it sounds like Marie has made her decision with her gut, rather than her head. Maybe the Entomologist has her more than just a little spooked.

"Are you sure you weren't hurt last night? You sound like something has happened! You need to tell me, Marie, so I can note it, and so I know not to send other girls out to him." Victoria's voice is all business now, impatient with Marie's reticence to just spill.

"It's not just that. I mean, he definitely scared the living shit out of me last night..."

She really wants to say ..._but I scared myself too. I was really belligerent. I laughed at him and I couldn't stop, I don't know what got into me. It's like I couldn't even think straight. It was like it wasn't me in there. Like I was watching from outside._ The words just won't come.

"I think that I just want out. Can I just get out?" Marie's voice has grown quieter, and she's tugging on a strand of hair nervously while walking slowly back towards her apartment.

"Of course you can Marie, you can go anytime. I was just worried that you didn't have anything to fall back on, you know?" Victoria's voice emanates concern, and for a moment, Marie almost believes that they're friends. Then, she remembers that Victoria knows perfectly well that she has nothing to fall back on at all. When they met, Marie was on the street, a hungry, filthy teenage runaway. If it wasn't for a chance meeting with a Madam such as Victoria, Marie knows that she would have been on her knees in filthy alleys in no time, just to earn money to eat. She knows that Victoria is probably remembering their meeting too, knowing that Marie never moved on from that lonely existence; she might have a sponsor in Victoria, but she's still that same broken girl deep down.

Victoria is not going to play the guilt-trip card. She doesn't have to - she's probably going to sit back and wait, knowing that Marie will be back when her options dwindle. She can afford to let her go, only to welcome her back with open arms later.

As she thinks these things, Marie's demeanor changes; her previous confidence wavers. Is she doing the right thing? This is all she knows. _What will I do? Who the fuck will I be if I'm not this?_ She brings the heel of her palm up to rub across her temple like the throbbing scar of all this can just be wiped away. She's still holding the book and the front cover fans open onto a blank cover sheet where she finds something; tiny initials appear to be written into the corner, inscribed lightly with grey pencil in a neat italic script; _E.C._

The initials themselves mean nothing to her, but the use of them shows her that someone has taken ownership of this book; staked a claim over it by putting their name on it.

She needs to lay claim to her own life in much the same way.

Recapturing her previous resolve, she straightens, speaking more assertively.

"Thanks for everything, Victoria. You know how much I've appreciated your help over the years. I'll let you know how I'm getting on, okay?"

"Of course! Call anytime, and let me know if there is something I can do to help." Victoria pauses, then continues in a slightly lower tone, delivering the backhander, "I can only imagine that with no family and no work experience, things might get tough for you Marie."

To an outsider, the conversation might be nothing more than some concerned friend, looking out for her. If it were not for Victoria's choice of words. The words which, to Marie, seem designed to depress, to make her question her decision and to make her realize that indeed, she has nobody.

_She is completely alone._

As if sensing Marie's weakness, Victoria stabs her next words into Marie's exposed and vulnerable soul. "I don't want you to think that you don't have _any_ friends though, you know? Anyway, maybe I'll call you too. Check up on you, so to speak. And let's not cancel that lunch date just yet, I'll call in a couple of days to check in and see how you're doing, maybe we can still meet over a glass of red, what do you say? Take care, okay? _Ciao bella."_

Marie's feet are frozen to the sidewalk, but her head feels like it's swimming. She wants to ask _'What did you just call me?'_ but Victoria has already hung up. She begins moving again, but it's not until she stumbles dazed back to her apartment that she realizes Victoria might have only meant _Ciao beautiful_, that there might be nothing more to it than a friendly, genial farewell.

Those words don't leave her, though. They linger, even when she finally returns to her apartment and checks the bedroom window, finding the imprints of fingers on the glass she never remembers touching. _Ciao bella_.

They linger as her dream returns to haunt her night after night, the visceral fear still with her when she wakes screaming.

_Ciao_.

They linger when she picks up her car, the panels having been artfully repainted so that no trace of 'WHORE' shows through.

_Bella_.

They linger like the bruise on her cheek, which she hides with make-up as it ages from violet into greens and yellows over the course of a week.

They linger all through the next numb days when she only ventures out to Blondie's, growing increasingly despondent at the Rider's absence.

_Ciao Bella_.

They linger as she finishes the book, remembering all too late that there is no happy ending, even though sinners are spared.

She knows better than to expect such a resolution for herself.

* * *

**A/N:** As before, thank you very much for reading.

**Sunday, 13th Feb, 2011:** As mentioned two chapters ago, I have written a small contribution for the **Fandoms Fight the Floods** fundraiser, for the victims of floods in Queensland, Australia. The outtake explains the beginning of Marie and Victoria's working relationship and gives some insight into Marie's past, though this will be explored more in later chapters. If you'd like to contribute funds to FFtF and receive a compilation that features works from writers across many fandoms, including Twi and HP, please do so here: **http : / fandomsfightthefloods (dot) blogspot (dot) com**

A special thanks to **VampsHaveLaws **who writes the excellent **Evading Edward**, **MissWinkles **who is behind **Blindsided - **a new Spybella fic I'm loving, and **mpg** who writes my favorite angst-fest,** Letters to You,** for mentioning this story as a recommendation, I'm very grateful, though you obviously have questionable taste.

Also, to **Luv'n Cullen**, who has started a Twilighted thread for this story. I'm not really sure what to do with it as it's never happened to me before, but I'm very grateful anyway! There is a link on my profile if you feel so inclined.


	8. Loner

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions._

* * *

Edward isn't sure his day could possibly get any worse.

He reaches under the visor of his motorcycle helmet and pulls at the hood of his sweatshirt, adjusting it over his face. The helmet should keep out the worst of the rain, but it defies laws of nature, forcing itself under the visor and into his eyes. He's been sitting astride his bike for so long that his ass has gone to sleep, and he shifts his weight from one leg to another while waiting for the lights to change, in an effort to ease the pins and needles.

_Stupid fucking coat isn't even warm_, he thinks. He is uncomfortable, soaking wet and cold, and he's stuck in the rain on his motorbike. He loves the Triumph, but it's the single most impractical form of transport for riding around the Olympic Peninsula where it's constantly fucking raining.

Suddenly remembering the sheets of paper in his satchel, he mutters a low curse and tries to shrug the soaked bag from his shoulder. He reaches for it but can't grip the strap with his bulky gloves.

Removing them is a feat in itself, and he knows that replacing them on his frozen, wet hands will be so difficult that it should be an elite sport. He finally gets them off, yanks the strap from his shoulder and stuffs the bag under the lapel of the leather coat he wears over his tattered grey hoodie. He wonders at the idiocy of this idea; the bag is so wet that it's like squeezing a sponge against his chest when he zips his coat up over it.

Replacing the gloves is pointless; the moisture on his hands makes them squeaky and freezing cold inside. He glares at the traffic light and wills it to change. It looks back at him, undaunted.

His journey had started well enough three hours ago when he was still basking in the glow of familial warmth, such as it was. Esme had cooked them all an amazing breakfast, and despite the wall-to-wall windows overlooking the cool green forest, the white house in Forks had been positively exuding warmth and love as it always had. They'd all convened over the weekend to celebrate Carlisle's birthday, and even though the usual questions were asked, Edward had been in a good mood. Not even Emmett's standard commentary got to him. Much.

"Man, if the stick up your ass was any bigger, it'd be called a penis," Emmett had snorted.

"Emmett! For goodness' sake... I really can't believe you still behave like this at your age." Esme was not amused by her eldest's continued taunts.

Edward sat quietly, wishing that their mother would just keep out of it. Unlike her, he knew that each time she stuck up for him, she pushed Emmett to more extreme lengths in his quest for Edward's discomfort.

They love each other as brothers should and would never really step over the invisible line between ribbing and harassment. However, Edward's solitary nature coupled with his love of creative pursuits which Emmett views as 'soft' means that over the years, he's had to endure many baited jibes at his expense. Emmett just seems to have a natural bullying talent that he embraces wholeheartedly. Coupled with the fact that Edward lives with a male friend and has never to Emmett's knowledge had a serious heterosexual relationship, the conclusions he comes to seem naturally obvious, at least to Emmett.

"Well big guy, I guess that having never actually seen a penis, you will never really know how big they can get," Edward countered, pushing away from the kitchen island and taking the stairs to his childhood room at a leisurely pace. Emmett had just rolled his eyes at his retreating back, snorting at Edward's typically backhanded comeback. From the corner of his eye, Edward had noticed Carlisle smirk silently into his open newspaper at the predictable antics of his sons.

Edward is still mulling over the morning exchange with Emmett as the light finally relents and he guns it, the piercing chill of the rain now making him desperate to get home to Seattle. The place he occupies isn't much, but it's cheap, and sharing it with Jasper makes it more so. He has only asked his parents for financial help once since he finished studying, but the concerned look on Carlisle's face stopped him from doing it ever again. He is determined to get his shit together, so he lives frugally in their very basic apartment.

It really isn't even an apartment but rather a gutted shop; all exposed brick, wooden beams and unfinished rough concrete floors. Edward thinks of it as the warehouse. It's roomy and the absence of internal walls means that Edward and Jasper have a nice open space over which they can disperse their mess.

The warehouse is conveniently divided into two distinct areas so that the two men can occupy it comfortably without infringing on one another's space. Jas lives in a open mezzanine above the entryway and Edward spreads out over the ground floor. They comfortably share the amenities downstairs and neither Jas nor Edward are home enough to get on each others' nerves.

There is a square area of polished wooden floor on the ground level. Edward thinks it was once an office, but the walls of it have since been removed, making it look more like a dance floor island, moored in a sea of concrete. He hopes that the walls weren't a structural support, or he might wake up one day wearing the roof, or Jasper, as a rather awkward ornament.

Still, as rough as the place is, he is happy there. It's spacious and has great acoustics. There is plenty of room for all his equipment, and he has set himself up comfortably with his bed on the dance-floor, the only place in the warehouse where he can swing his bare feet out and not step on a rusty nail or a chunk of concrete. It still amuses him that the bed, which hasn't seen any action in some time, is on the dance floor which has probably never seen any action at all. It's poetic.

Scavenged milk crates serve as the desk for his laptop and recording equipment, possibly the most expensive things he owns, except for the instruments themselves. There is also a wooden desk which is covered in sheets of paper, sheet music and scores, plectrums and books; the sum of Edward's life. Under the desk, little dust tumbleweeds stir with any passing movement.

A black Steinway grand piano is a huge presence in the open space; Edward still remembers the thrill and disbelief which licked its way through his gut when he somehow managed to snare it second-hand from an estate sale years ago, for a fraction of its true worth.

There are scuff-marks on the glossy finish, but he likes them; the piano had a life before they met, and so did he. Edward likes to think that he also has scuff-marks on his finish.

He loves the way the lid looks like an upraised ebony wing and sometimes, he touches it as he walks past, just for the feel of the inky slickness beneath his fingertips. He could go for days without speaking to another human being, just ensconced in the warehouse in the company of his piano. He feels its presence like that of a sentient entity. They have an understanding.

Another treasured instrument always within an arm's reach is his Godin guitar, resting on its padded stand next to Edward's bed. A gift from Esme and Carlisle, its presence is a fond reminder of the best years of his life spent studying Composition at UW. Presented to him upon his acceptance into the prestigious School of Music, the guitar is a wonderfully striking classical acoustic instrument. He's collected several other guitars over the years and they sit lightly on their holders or snugly in their cases around the warehouse, but this one is like an extension of his body.

When he plays it, he is transported from himself. He loves the way the smooth, blond wood feels when he holds it against his chest, the weight of it so pleasant across his thigh. It's a modern looking guitar, the shape of it seemingly made to sit perfectly in the crook of his arm. Just thinking about it makes him long to get home faster; he wants to see it again, and touch it.

In comparison to the haphazard way that Edward's possessions seem to have been strewn about like toys scattered through a dollhouse by a giant fickle child, Jasper's little mezzanine space is not so much tidy as sparse. There is a low futon on a simple timber base which is somehow always cleanly made, the sheets pulled up fastidiously and smoothed over the edges.

Jasper owns a chest of drawers and it never appears to be covered in worn clothes and various other crap; Edward is pretty sure that all of Jas' clothes are laundered, neatly folded and put away in there, even though he's never looked.

Jas owns an acoustic guitar too, and it's usually in its case and under the bed, though they jam together on the rare occasion that both are home at the same time. Jas is a fan of old movies; he loves 70s spaghetti westerns and horrors from the same era, and vintage film posters are the only adornment on the mezzanine walls. Easy Rider and Dirty Harry both overlook the mezzanine with their scornful, judging glares. Edward is a fan of that period too, and his vast music collection reflects his taste for big, raw and real sounds like the Rolling Stones and Jimi Hendrix, from when music was made and not mixed.

Jasper's space is uncomplicated and Edward wonders if it reflects the inside of Jasper's ordered and sensible head in the same way that Edward's space reflects the mess and anxious insecurity inside his own.

There is a small kitchenette at the back of the warehouse too, which was also at some point housed within plaster walls, but now just exists free-range in the open space, moored in concrete the same as the dance floor.

The only internal walls are those around a bathroom that comprises of a small vanity, a toilet and a shower cubicle. Edward thinks that the compulsive wall-removers had probably left the bathroom intact because everyone needs privacy for a crap in their own toilet without their ass on display to the world, even if that world is as small as a warehouse in downtown Seattle. He realizes it could have been worse. He could still be living in Forks with his parents.

To warm the place up a bit, he'd stuck his drawings and photographs on the bare, brick walls, and the big messy sketches give life and movement to an otherwise bland space. The only windows are narrow horizontal slits high up above the kitchenette out back, so he has plenty of wall space to tack them on to. The lack of daylight has never bothered him; he's always been a bit of a night owl, suffering bouts of insomnia from time to time. Sometimes the daytime just doesn't suit his disposition, which most would say is anything but sunny.

The warehouse is wedged between taller buildings on either side, and the back wall serves as the boundary to the property behind it. The only other exit is a ladder one could climb to the roof, and he often does so on clear nights. He often watches the sleeping neighborhood from his rooftop, just... thinking.

He's on home turf now, and rides past Blondie's on the corner, the apartment buildings, shops similar in their size and shape to his warehouse, finally turning into his street. The only entry in and out of the place apart from the manhole in the ceiling is through the roll-up door at the front, which has had a man-size doorway cut into it. He guesses that the front was once a window shopfront, replaced at some point with the roller door.

He carefully manhandles the Triumph into the warehouse through the cut-away doorway, and rests it on its foot. Closing the door behind him, he peels off the dripping coat, the spongy bag, the helmet and the old hoodie, dropping them all unceremoniously onto the bare concrete floor. The soaked gloves and his black riding boots follow, all dumped on the floor where he stands, in a soggy, limp mess.

Feeling suddenly weightless, he stands shivering and exhausted in the drafty warehouse, wearing only a half-soaked t-shirt and leather riding pants, which are adhered to his legs tighter than a plaster cast - _getting those fuckers off will be a joy_, he thinks humorlessly. He's only been away for a week but it's been a long, miserable ride home.

In the kitchenette, he fills the kettle, rummaging around for something to mix with the hot water. He's perplexed to find his cupboards bare except for a few slices of moldy bread, an empty box of breakfast cereal and a head of garlic, and nothing other than a couple of bottles of beer in the fridge.

He slams the cupboard door closed and narrowly escapes being clocked by it as it ricochets straight back at him.

"Jesus Tiberius Christ..." he inspects the broken catch, thanking quick reflexes for somehow getting him out of having to explain an embarrassing handle-shaped bruise in the middle of his forehead.

He should have remembered that Jas hasn't been home; they'd spoken a few days ago and Jas mentioned that he'd been staying at his new girlfriend's house all week, over in Bellingham. Edward should have gone shopping on the way home.

Not that he really does grocery shopping. More like a quick trip to the gas station to pick up a jar of instant coffee or a loaf of bread. Which… he sometimes eats straight out of the goddamn bag. He sighs and ceases his fruitless search, brow creased in consternation.

He really isn't taking good care of himself, and he knows Esme would be pissed if she knew the extent of his self-neglect. He pretended not to notice her concerned, loaded glances and the occasional knowing sighs during his visit in Forks, but he's perfectly aware that his mother worries about him and his well-being. He is twenty eight years old, and he should know better. Then again, he's twenty eight years old, single, and a moody, restless fucker. Nobody really gets close enough to care, and he does alright just to care occasionally himself.

Thinking back to his bare cupboards, he has no idea what that fucking garlic is doing in there because as far as he knows neither he nor Jas would have the faintest clue what the hell to do with it. He closes the door on it - carefully - so it won't mock him with its presence in the absence of anything actually edible.

He absentmindedly rubs his hand under the uncomfortably damp threadbare t-shirt and across his naked belly as if he could subdue the rumbling sounds out of it, scratching at the fine line of hair that disappears under the waistband of his riding leathers.

Well, there is nothing for it. _A trip to Blondie's it is_.

Decided on his course of action, Edward peels off his itchy, cold leathers, quickly stripping down to his underwear. He runs around like a streaker through the frigid warehouse dressing in whatever dry clothes he can find, namely the jeans, long sleeve t-shirt and sweatshirt he'd discarded on his bed just a week ago. He figures airing them for that long is as good as washing them.

He drags a kitchen hand-towel over his half-wet helmet hair, rubbing away as much of the rain as he can, then drags his clawed fingers through it roughly. He doesn't really own a mirror, but knows that his hair is too long and probably looks like a bird has nested in it. Briefly, he ponders the origin of the little towel. He sure as hell didn't buy anything as practical as that. Then he remembers; after his last visit to Forks, Esme sent him home with some new linen and towels, and Edward has just blotted rainwater out of his unwashed hair with one of them.

"Sorry Mom." He startles himself, speaking aloud into the empty, echoing warehouse.

The sound bounces off the walls, the shallow echo seeming to pick up tone as it passes through strings, nylon and steel, ivory and wood. He walks slowly over to the Steinway and his hand glides across that opaque black wing just like he knew it would, the skin of his palm swishing soundlessly across the glossy surface. He takes another step until the claviature is directly under his caressing hands, then sits on the stool. His naked foot rests on the pedal as though it grew from the pedal itself, pale toes pressing and curling into the black Bakelite.

Damp hair spills across his brow in messy tendrils as he begins to play, graceful fingers grazing, stroking the keys. The depth of sound is surreal as rich tones permeate the warehouse. Classically trained, Edward's elegant hands hover above the keyboard in just the right position, striking with precision and deliberation, while the music he and the piano produce appears so fluid and natural, completely devoid of pretense.

Chopin's Mazurka falls out from under those fingers, dancing around his auburn head like a halo of sound as he closes his eyes, elated. He plays like this, oblivious, wanting to distance himself from strained familial relationships and from expectations; both those of his family and the ones he places on himself. The beauty of the composition and his joy at being able to reproduce it help him stop thinking about his father's worried looks and his mother's hopeful ones. The actual complexity of the seemingly whimsical piece allows him to forget about the tiny pills he desperately wishes he didn't have to take, and the anxious and sometimes unpredictable, dark, bleak thoughts he has when he tries to do without them.

The Mazurka comes to an end, the last notes hanging in the air like a lover's whispers. He lifts his numbed foot from the pedal and his now still hands from the keyboard, laying them in his lap. The freezing cold of the miserable day is suddenly there, enveloping him in just the lightest kiss of despair. He swings his legs over the piano stool and stands, suddenly wanting to be among people. He's still not going to talk to any of them, but at least he won't be alone. His school teacher mother would call it parallel-play, he snorts.

Pulling on dry boots, he darts out through the cut-away door and runs a couple of blocks to Blondie's, inhaling the fresh salt-tinged air. There are no tables outside today, for obvious reasons. Edward opens the door and is greeted with a wall of fragrant warmth, pleasantly shaping itself to envelop his stone cold body. He breezes in, leaving the persistent rain and his shitty mood outside.

This place is his second home. Well, maybe his third home, after his parent's house. He rubs his icy hands together and lopes over to his favorite booth, finds it unoccupied, and folds himself into it, long legs splayed awkwardly under the little table. Two other customers sit near the counter chatting, and another near the door is preparing to leave. It looks like the afternoon will be quiet here.

Perfect.

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**A/N:** As before, thank you very much for reading! It's so lovely to hear from you.

**Wednesday, 23rd Feb, 2011:** My **Fandoms Fight the Floods** fundraiser contribution is completed and has been sent in to form a part of the oneshot compilation, soon to be sent out to those who donate. The outtake explains the beginning of Marie and Victoria's working relationship and gives some insight into Marie's past, though this will be explored more in later chapters. If you'd like to contribute funds to FFtF and receive this compilation that features works from writers across many fandoms, including Twi and HP, please do so here: **http : / fandomsfightthefloods (dot) blogspot (dot) com**

Thanks once again to **Luv'n Cullen**, who has started a Twilighted thread for this story. There is a link on my profile if you feel so inclined.


	9. Nexus

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions._

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Edward slides sideways into the vinyl booth to get closer to the window overlooking the street. He leans back into the cushioned backrest, stretching his arms out across the table and suddenly feeling the tension in his neck and shoulders. The long ride from Forks, coupled with the chill of being soaked to the skin have made him feel stiff and sore all over. He groans softly under his breath as his aching muscles and creaky tendons slowly relax into the warmth of the café.

"Hey Mom, look what the rain washed in!"

He looks up and grins at Ness, who has appeared at the end of his booth wearing her little apron with cherries on it as she always does, over a simple tunic and leggings. Sunny hazel eyes beam at Edward with genuine pleasure to see him, and he can't help but return her smile. Her hair is unbound today, the untamed honey curls bouncing all over the place, emphasizing her youthful freshness.

She grins at Edward, and he's so glad that it's Ness today, and not Jessica or Lauren who each work shifts in the café sometimes. Something as innocent as ordering coffee turns downright lewd with Lauren and her ability to turn any innocent remark into a double entendre, and for some reason he's never quick enough with a witty retort. As for Jessica, he wishes he could return some of the affection she seems to hold for him. She's not unattractive and he has often wondered if he could perhaps ask her out. When he really thinks about it though, there is just not enough attraction there to start with, and he doesn't want to disappoint or hurt her, or indeed selfishly ruin Blondie's for himself should it all go wrong. Instead, he chooses to suffer her undisguised interest with goodnatured half-hearted smiles, hoping that she will never take the initiative herself.

There have been times when he has just kept walking past Blondie's once he saw that both girls were working, unwilling to be subjected to this particular kind of tag-team torture. One he could handle, but both of them together would be deadly to his sanity. Ness, however, only offers a ready and authentic smile, and Edward doesn't feel anything sinister behind it. It's refreshing and endearing. It might have something to do with her being younger than the others. Edward thinks she might be about sixteen, though she behaves pretty maturely for a teenager.

"Hi Ness, how've you been?" His voice is quiet, still a little hoarse from the chill outside.

"School sucks Edward, what can I say?" With a grin, she flips him a menu and leaves him to ponder what he might eat to calm his growling stomach. He watches her retreat, thinking that she doesn't know how pretty she is, and wonders if the boys overlook her once they discover her mother: Rosalie.

Where Ness is dark blonde curls and hazel-eyed warmth, Rosalie is gold and ice-blue, forbidding perfection to be admired from a distance. She looks no older than early thirties, which in Edward's view, makes her a very young single mom to a teenage daughter.

She's the mother of all MILFs, gorgeous like a model and entirely unapproachable. She wears an expression that borders on scorn, and Edward pities the unfortunate bastard that incurs her wrath and endures the brunt of that withering scowl. Edward was once a witness when her Medusa glare was unleashed on a hapless would-be suitor at the café, and if she ever looked at _him_ that way he would probably cup his balls protectively just to prevent them from shriveling to the size of acorns. She's intimitdating, he feels like she can see straight through him, more so than even his own mother. Truth be told, he's a little scared of her.

"Is that you, Eddie?" He hears Rosalie before he sees her, and leans out of the booth to raise his hand in greeting, as she makes her way to the front of the café.

"It's lovely to be graced with your presence, once more," she says dryly, collecting stray wisps of flaxen hair as she passes her manicured hand over her pinned back twist. Edward feels a little exposed as her cool eyes appraise his dishevelled state.

He smirks up at her, not rising to the bait. He'd once made the mistake of telling her how much he hated being called 'Eddie', only to have her use the horrible moniker each time she addressed him from that point onward.

"Looking lovely as always, Rosalie. Can I get something hot? Maybe some soup? And a coffee too, please." His voice sounds scratchy and hoarse to his own ears.

She takes the menu back without a word and makes her way back to the counter and behind it, her kitchen.

Weary and slowly relaxing into the homely atmosphere of Blondie's, Edward looks around at the familiar scene. The walls are plastered with posters of movies and bands, broken up with strange pieces that have no business being in each other's company, but somehow combined they create an eclectic ambiance that he feels comfortable in.

Botanical drawings of plants and insects sit alongside a Japanese fan. A black vinyl Ramones record with a postcard from Greece pinned through the center partially obscures a draped and pinned silk Indian scarf. Elsewhere, a bunch of dried flowers hangs upside down, interspersed with photos of Rosalie and Ness in a sunny place, obviously on vacation.

Not for the first time, Edward wonders about the identity of Ness's father. There aren't any men in the photos, and no other women either. It's just the two of them, always together, always alone. Even though the context is different, Edward understands the sentiment behind this idea all too well. Even when he participated in relationships in the past, he never really stopped feeling alone. Not lonely as such, because he has never really craved company. But alone, yes. He feels he has always been apart, separate from the crowd. A loner.

All around the café, the strange mix of tactile objects reads like a braille glimpse into the lives of these two people, a woman and her daughter. As his eyes follow the textures on the walls, he finds his mind relaxing as he focuses outward for a change, instead of running feverish laps around his own head.

Unnoticed, Rose watches Edward just as closely for a few moments from the back of the café as he inspects her mementos; he's gotten quite scruffy-looking lately. He sits with his feet crossed over each other under the seat, scuffed and aged boots only loosely tied and shoelaces coming undone. He sprawls out over the table, appearing to have been spilled there as he supports his head on the palm of his hand.

His long limbs are rather sinewy and he isn't muscular so much as well-defined. He reminds her of a cat, the way they just drape themselves over a surface as though boneless. He looks... fluid. Graceful. His auburn hair is too long and darker at the nape where it's still damp from the rain outside. It flips slightly away from the curve of his neck where a couple of little dark freckles reside, etched into pale skin between his jaw and his ear. She smirks at the unflattering echo of his motorbike helmet pressed into his normally wild and scruffy hair, and the tag of his shirt sticking up out of his collar like a little flag to unkemptness.

She knows that Jessica and Lauren both salivate over him, but notes with bizarre satisfaction that it doesn't seem to gratify him to have them fawn all over him. It pleases Rosalie to know that not all men who look as good as Edward are opportunists. Not for the first time, she wonders if he is gay. It is possible.

Rosalie doesn't think he has ever actually noticed her, and although she doesn't really mind, she finds it curious. Most men are not discreet in their admiration of her dazzling exterior but her appearance doesn't seem to affect Edward in the way it does other men. He doesn't ignore her yet he doesn't appraise her the way a gay man would either, so she can't be sure. Still, his respectful demeanor makes it easy for them to be cordial to each other. If he was interested in her, it would make their interactions uncomfortable.

Returning to the kitchen, Rosalie is aware of the sound of rain picking up outside, the gentle drizzle turning swiftly into a steady hum. It makes her nostalgic, the familiar sound taking her back to a time when it was just her and a tiny, sweet-smelling infant, all smooth skin and dimples, perfect shell-pink ears and delicate fingers carved like sublime Greek miniatures permanently squeezed into tight little fists. She remembers nights when the rain sounded just like this outside the window of the tiny apartment she shared with Vera, another single mother with a baby. The two of them were perpetually sleepless and frazzled with the unrelenting demands of new motherhood and the stress of part-time work while their babies grew and thrived like little weeds.

Rosalie looks over at Ness bustling in the small café kitchen, her expression softening with tenderness that few are privy to. She remembers those times so well because they were the happiest in her life, even though they eventuated from what seemed like the end of the world at the time. This girl, this _young woman_, this amazing human being is what has become of her baby Vanessa, whom she carried and birthed against the wishes of her family, turning her back on her own ambitions and walking away from the comforts of that family and their money.

The whole experience has hardened her over time, she has become very distrustful and wary of people, keeping most well away from her personal life. She worked so hard on cultivating her frigid exterior that it's second nature now, hardly any effort at all.

Rosalie smiles ruefully as she remembers that it had seemed like such a big deal at the time. How could she have known that the sacrifice wasn't a sacrifice at all, but a gift so huge that it would take years to comprehend the enormity of it? Overwhelmed with feelings, Rosalie's arms extend of their own accord and encircle her daughter, embracing her tightly with immense love. Her heart swells when Ness's curly head tilts back against her, fitting perfectly in the hollow of her throat, between her shoulder and chin, just like it always has.

They're of the same height now, but where it looks statuesque and imposing coupled with Rosalie's feminine curves, Ness's slim frame makes the five feet and nine inches appear boyishly slim, as though she is still to grow into her height properly. Rosalie nuzzles her daughter's curls and kisses Ness's temple tenderly, realizing just that; her Ness is growing up, and fast.

"You okay, Mom?" Ness murmurs softly, yielding to her mother's snuggle as she momentarily stops stacking the dishwasher with used utensils.

"Mhm... Just remembering when you were little. You've grown so fast..." Rosalie's voice is soft, echoing the sentiment she's feeling. "It's like I've blinked my eyes and you're a woman."

"It sure didn't feel like that to me!" Ness giggles, not yet at a place from which squandered years can be mourned or coveted.

_God, when had she grown up to be so big?_ Rosalie's arms still recall the feeling of holding that tiny baby in her arms, close to her breast. How is it possible that she herself had been younger than Vanessa is right now when she gave birth to her? It seems surreal. Unimaginable. And eons ago. She sighs, thinking that she'd give anything to experience it all again now that she's a woman, not a girl battling the prejudices and hardships she faced as a teenager all those years ago. She squeezes Ness quickly before letting her go.

"Eddie wants coffee and soup. Could you get him a bowl? I'll do the coffee."

Walking back into the café feels like stepping into a cozy cocoon, the warmth of the homely interior a stark contrast against the darkening and foreboding skies outside. As rain continues to pelt against the glass of her windows, Rosalie goes about making Edward's coffee; black, no sugar.

She scrutinizes him again from behind the coffee machine, the hulking metal acting like a barricade keeping her from being discovered. _If only he'd cut that goddamn hair_, she muses, _he'd really be something to look at._ She feels a kind of regard toward Edward, something akin to sisterly affection. He's been coming here a long time, always quietly, never with any fanfare. He just slinks in and sits in one of the booths, keeping to himself. Sometimes he reads or scribbles in a notebook, but sometimes, like today, he folds himself around the furniture and stares out the window with unfocused eyes. Having made his coffee, Rosalie places it on a saucer and walks toward Edward in his booth.

She sets the coffee down next to him, but realizing that he might knock it off the table, she picks it up again, reaches over him and places it in his line of sight, near the window. Awakened out of his stupor by the disruption and refocusing on his immediate surroundings, Edward slowly leans back and rubs feeling back into his face with stiff fingers. He looks up at Rosalie with gratitude.

Propelled by her earlier surge of motherly affection, she grins back at him and unthinkingly, lovingly, tucks the tag of his t-shirt back down under his collar, smoothing the palm of her hand across his shoulder, bone and sinew, which tense and harden under the unexpected contact.

Both of them are a little stunned by the gentleness and intimacy of this action, and Rosalie almost jumps backward in her hurry to get away from him and the baffled expression on his face. She waves her hand in the air as if to express dismissal and is suddenly gone, a bewildered Edward staring after her quickly retreating back.

The bells of the wind chime sound as the door of the café closes behind a new customer releasing both Edward and Rosalie from the awkwardness, each of them reacting to the sound. Edward's eyes are drawn down as he suddenly finds his own hands of great interest while Rosalie looks up and into the eyes of another, albeit more recent, regular customer. She nods a greeting at the silent girl and immediately begins preparing her hot chocolate order just as she has done over the past few days.

The task is a welcome distraction from the intense embarrassment over the inexplicable liberty she has just taken with one of her customers. Rosalie keeps her eyes down and focused on the hot chocolate as Ness brushes past her with Edward's soup, sure that the shame is branded into her face. She remembers when Ness was little, and she took great pains to cut all the little tags off her clothing so they wouldn't stick out or chafe the back of her neck... this was just a leftover reflex, and she hopes like hell that Edward will just forget it.

She glances covertly in his direction, but he's facing away, one pale, graceful hand attacking his helmet-hair with anxious ferocity. Seeing signs of an embarrassment as deep as her own, Rosalie thinks that maybe she can regain the upper hand by pretending the disconcerting moment never happened.

"Take-away... please." The nearly whispered words are unexpected, and Rosalie starts, looking up at the person in front of her as if seeing her for the first time. Only now does Rosalie notice that the rain outside has flattened the girl's normally lovely dark hair into a damp mess, iridescent droplets still clinging to her partially drenched head. Normally she stays at the café for hours, but obviously not today. Rosalie swaps the mug for a take-away cup.

"Marshmallow?" She asks the girl in front of her, and receiving a small nod as the answer she drops a marshmallow into the huge cup, caps it with a lid, and offers it to the waiting girl who claims it with a slightly shaky hand. There are signs of weariness in the girl's pale face, a resignation of sorts.

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to wait for the rain to stop?" Rosalie offers, extending the only form of comfort she can to this bedraggled girl who looks like she might cry at any moment. A tight grimace is Rosalie's only answer and the girls is already turning away to leave, wet hair plastered to her cheeks in an unflattering tangle, eyes flicking to Edward furtively.

The strange, silent girl makes her way toward the door, pausing hesitantly near Edward's booth, and for a moment, Rosalie thinks that she's going to talk to him. Instead, she reaches in under her rain-spattered sweatshirt and produces a book, which she places gently and silently alongside Edward's elbow. Pale hands retreat into the sleeves of her sweatshirt like spooked little tortoises into their shell and the girl sweeps out of the café, her short pause unnoticed by Edward.

It's not until the sound of wind chimes accompanies her exit from the café that he looks up, seeing her as she rushes alongside the row of windows towards him, albeit on the other side of the thick glass. He sits perfectly still as her profoundly sad eyes scan his face hungrily, tendrils of wet, black hair a stark contrast to her white complexion, rain now falling directly into her face. Their eyes lock as she walks into the oncoming downpour, piercing through Edward's stupor with a confronting jolt.

He sits up straighter in his seat as though executing her mute command, sent via huge dark eyes directly into his viscera. He barely has time to look at her properly, but still manages to notice a discoloration on her cheek. It looks like a healing bruise on her face, and it is the only mar on her monochromatic visage. Her eyes hold him pinned to the booth even as she rushes past merely a window's thickness away and continues out of his line of sight.

He considers turning in the booth and plastering his face to the window so he can watch her; only the presence of other people in the café stops him from doing it. As intrigued as he is by the almost tangible darkness seeping from the girl's entire being, Edward doesn't want to look like a crazy stalker.

Instead, he slowly sips the coffee Rosalie brought him, masking his disconcerting reaction and willing his inexplicably elevated pulse to calm the fuck down. He clears his throat and swallows hard, the ever-present narrative in his head stopped in its tracks by the bizarre encounter which was over in seconds but felt like a lifetime. Restless, fidgeting hands eventually happen upon the soup spoon, and he looks down in bewilderment, suddenly remembering what he's doing here. He picks it up in a daze and begins to eat his soup, the heat of it demanding his attention so he doesn't burn off the roof of his mouth.

Edward doesn't notice the book at his elbow until he's almost finished, his hand halting en route to his mouth, spoon dropping into the porcelain bowl below it with an inelegant clatter as he reaches for it with hesitant fingers. The romanticized artist in him immediately places his recently missing (and now recovered) book in the hands of the mysterious waif, and he touches it reverently, as though hoping to feel the residual heat of her slim fingers embedded in the paper.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Marie's face burns with shame as she makes her getaway.

_God, what a naive fool! Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupidstupidstupid..._

And to think she's been coming here every day for a week, growing ever more detached from reality! It seemed to her that she only wanted to see him, to really see his face. In the beginning, she came here driven by the silly fancy to just see the Rider again, hoping that he was a regular, that the book was his, that she would run into him and... _and what?_

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!_

She'd never gotten past the 'see his face' part. She realizes now that she had no idea what it was she'd wanted to achieve from their imagined encounter. There were no plans past the 'see his face' part. She was so struck by his overall presence that the impression he left burning under her eyelids so many days ago stayed with her all this time, growing over with fuzzy layers of her glorified idealism until he was a surreal mythical creature, her very own Pegasus.

And when she finally did really see him, it was like a slap in the face with a dead fish.

Colder, harsher than the rain bombarding her face mercilessly as she walks home, dejected.

Worse than enduring the corset through countless, nameless fucks every single day for a thousand years.

Because, he _was_ Pegasus.

Not meant for the likes of her.

She should have turned back around the moment that the skies threatened to rain, the almost imperceptible and feather-light droplets misting her skin. She should have seen it as an omen, a warning.

Instead, she had tucked the book under her sweatshirt to keep it dry and continued on toward Blondie's as she had every day for the past week, a little dispirited at first, as usual, by the absence of a vintage black motorcycle parked on the pavement outside, but nevertheless looking forward to an afternoon of reading and waiting...

Waiting for him.

The waiting had been filling her days quite nicely all week, anticipation taking up the time she could have been spending on making real, concrete plans for her own future and thinking about the real issues she faced, like not being a whore, instead of imaginary ones, like yearning.

So she'd blundered onwards despite the ominous drizzling rain, and straight into a wake-up call. The moment she began walking alongside Blondie's row of windows she felt a foreboding dread settle on her skin like cold, green moss growing on her skin. Marie had risked a peek into the windows and registered a presence in the booth she herself had inhabited daily for a week, her stomach dropping sickeningly like in a descending carnival ride.

Without thinking, she'd walked into the café like an automaton, finally looking up to behold that presence, dread and hope blossoming in the pit of her gut in equal measures. Etched in sharp relief against the crimson booth vinyl, he sat like a beacon of promise: gorgeous, scruffy, and so very real. For a brief moment, nobody else existed in the café, and Marie had her tunnel vision trained on the Rider, able just to revel in the idea that he was actually here, that he had come back after all.

Then, in slow motion, everything curdled like week-old milk.

Marie had watched, helplessly trapped by her tunnel vision, as the blonde Glamazon from the café claimed the Rider for herself by touching him so affectionately, as delicately as a lover would. A deep furrow formed between his brows, leading down to his excruciatingly penetrating eyes, and she had watched in mute agony as he turned after his blonde lover, his look of wonder squelching Marie's heart under his well-turned foot.

It made perfect sense.

The survivor in her had taken over her body then, mechanically going through the process of getting Marie her hot chocolate as always, somehow managing to speak actual words to the woman who has just appropriated the only thing Marie had ever coveted, then gliding out of there as though on someone else's legs. She had managed to offload the book on her way out, depositing it silently at the edge of his table as she passed, her fingers almost, _almost_ close enough to touch his sleeve. As though she would have ever dared.

And then, perversely, just as she was out of the café and finally free to descend into despair, he had looked up and stared down the barrel of her tunnel vision back at her, effortlessly unwrapping the complex layers she had built around herself as though they weren't there. He simply looked into her and she was glad she was somehow able to keep walking toward him.

Away from him.

Passing directly next to his booth's window felt like having her guts twisted into a pretzel, and then, he was gone, the connection severed. She was alone on the sidewalk, rushing home to her apartment, bookless and clueless, berating herself for investing hope in a fancy that would never be anything more than a stupid whore's daydream.

And somehow, even through the shameful realization that she'd been pining for something unattainable, Marie knows that underneath her mortification and shame at her own stupidity, she dares to still want him. One look was not enough.

She squeezes her eyes closed to purge reality like an addict that knows the next shot will be her last. Goddamn, she wants him, she's drawn to him like a moth to a flame, even if it should end badly. It's not like the lust she has sometimes felt for a lover, nor like the craving for a certain kind of food. This feels like having your severed arm crawl toward you to be reattached because it belongs there.

Never mind that he is not single, because even if he was, he is so far out of her league that he's practically on another planet. Never mind the blonde, because Marie knows she would never have the balls to be counted as a competitor to that golden Venus.

But she knows without a doubt that she'll be back at Blondie's tomorrow, just to glimpse at her Pegasus, even if he should snort dismissively as he tramples her under his glittering hooves.

She trudges through the pelting rain, soaked to the bone but determined, knowing that his presence will be enough.

* * *

**A/N:** As before, thank you very much for reading! It's so lovely to hear from you and to see some of you returning to R&R. I really do appreciate your time.

**Friday, 11th March, 2011:** **Fandoms Fight the Floods** are accepting donations through 31st March. If you'd like to contribute and receive the compilation that features works from writers across many fandoms, including an outtake of this story, please do so here: **http : / fandomsfightthefloods (dot) blogspot (dot) com**

Thanks once again to **Luv'n Cullen**, who has started a Twilighted thread for this story. There is a link on my profile if you feel so inclined.


	10. Visions

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions._

* * *

Walking back to the warehouse feels like battling through knee-deep treacle, pulling and sucking at Edward's feet. He's not sure what to make of the little bedraggled thing who returned his book. Having confirmed with Rosalie that it was indeed the wet waif who left it next to him on the table, he sat in the booth at Blondie's for hours, in an introspective stupor, until finally stumbling out into the street at closing time. If he were to try and explain it, it would be impossible to describe the feeling of profound sadness that the girl had inspired in him, and he wonders if he should be speaking to his doctor soon, and look into the effectiveness of his current medication. _Depression by osmosis is never a good sign._

Looking up into the drizzling rain, Edward contemplates a stiff drink to warm himself up upon his return to the warehouse. Happily, his feet know the way home and so he trudges onward, grateful for the moderate bad-weather traffic. There are only a few wet and sorry-looking people out on the sidewalks, and he's managed to bump into three of them like an errant pinball projectile while walking the two short blocks toward home.

Tired and drained, Edward hasn't given any thought to what he's going to do with the rest of his evening, and feels nothing past the immediate need to be at home again, striving for some level of comfort. He wishes he hadn't smoked the rest of his pot before leaving Forks, especially since Jas won't be around to go see his guy for a while.

Opening the cut-away door and stepping through its threshold, he's confronted with the mess he'd made when he got home earlier. His riding gear is strewn all over the place, his soggy bag lying in its own spreading puddle of sad on the concrete floor. His groan echoes shallowly off the walls and comes back to smack him over the head like a blunt object.

"Fuck..." he sputters, because looking at that stupid bag abruptly reminds him that there are score sheets in there, which are now more likely to resemble pulp than paper. His worst fears are confirmed as he carefully opens the sodden satchel and pulls out the soggy mess inside. Cursing his own stupidity, he maneuvers the lump of wet paper out as carefully as he can, knowing the sheets will need to be separated, and it's not something he can leave until later. They won't be salvageable if they dry all stuck together like this. He exhales a defeated sigh as a bundle of paper breaks away from the bulk and falls with a plop out of his hands and onto the gritty concrete.

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuck!" His stricken cry reverberates throughout the warehouse, and frustrated beyond reason, Edward pelts the rest of the clumped sheets at the floor where they land with a wet and heavy slap.

Groaning in exasperation, he stands with his fists in his hair, as though yanking on it will extract frustration along with the follicles. Finally capitulating, his body bows as he slowly lowers himself to the ground.

Kneeling on the hard and gritty floor, he begins to gently peel apart the wadded sheets, trying not to tear them. It's a relief that this is his own composition, and not something he has to learn in order to reproduce for the studio. This would be so much worse if he'd fucked up a paid gig. He sets each piece down on the concrete floor as he goes, only pausing to switch on the two portable space heaters he owns, hoping to warm the place up a bit and help the paper dry, too.

The quavers and breves have begun to bleed their ink into the paper like tear-stained confessions. Edward is grateful that the notes are still discernible and haven't completely washed off the pages in a smear of grey pencil, and he's pretty sure that he can recreate the composition. It speaks to him as he peels it apart, sheet by soggy sheet. He's not even aware that his mind is dissecting it, improving on it, refining it as he unwittingly studies the sheets.

Slowly he works, shuffling around on his knees for hours, eventually becoming aware of a growing headache. Sitting back on his haunches, Edward dusts off his knees and then rests his hands on his thighs and looks around, realizing that any available floorspace of the goddamn warehouse is now wearing a white shroud of slowly drying paper. He's been laying down sheets here, there and everywhere as he goes, hunched over them like a miser over his gold. The small windows allow slivers of twilight to filter into the warehouse, alighting the sheets until they look like golden embers on the floor. Despite the beautiful effect, Edward realizes that the place is getting dark and he can hardly see the notes on the pages anymore.

His previously warm fingers have long since begun to stiffen and ache from trying to handle the wet pulp so gently. Stretching his arms out above his head, he yawns and scratches absently at his scalp and roughly scruffs his hair. A couple of minutes go by while he organizes his mind, and he registers a growing feeling of unease winding slowly up from his gut. Something is wrong, but it takes another few huffs and yawns before it suddenly dawns on Edward that he has absolutely no fucking idea which sequence the pages are in. A white-hot ball of lead settles in his stomach when he finally realizes the enormity of his fuck-up. There are no page numbers. He wrote madly for days on the loose sheets he found in his old room at Forks, and didn't think to number the pages, being completely immersed in creating this piece. There is no sequence to the pages now strewn throughout the warehouse. It could take fucking days to work this shit out.

Rising up on his knees, Edward claws his upraised hands and lets out a guttural roar of frustration, the veins in his neck bulging with the effort. The day has apparently turned into an epic shitfest while he was otherwise occupied in his own little world. It's as though he'd gotten so caught up in his head that the details have raced by unnoticed under his very tired eyes. All details except for those dark, desperate eyes. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut and they're so clear; _she _is so clear.

Edward stands on shaky legs, spluttering obscenities all around him; he's frustrated, tired and fucking sore all over. Making his way over to the roof access, he picks up a blanket and stalks to the pull-cord hanging from the ceiling. Lifting his arms to lower the step ladder, he feels a solid weight in the pocket of his sweatshirt and barely avoids being whacked in the balls with it. He's glad there are no witnesses to the awkward sideways shuffle he performs to avoid it; it felt altogether too much like a Michael Jackson dance rehearsal. He stuffs the blanket under his arm and reaches into his pocket before remembering the apple he'd bought from Blondie's earlier, with the intention of eating it on the way home. He retrieves it and bites in, holding it between his teeth as tiny drops of juice run down his stubbly chin. He absently wipes at it with the back of his hand.

Edward climbs the wobbly metal ladder, pushing up against the little door which leads outside to the rooftop. The rain stopped hours ago, and the slant of the roof means that it is now dry enough to lie on, even more so after he unfurls the blanket over it. The roof slopes down slightly toward the back of the warehouse, and lying on his back, Edward faces the expansive cedar tree in the yard of an apartment building behind the warehouse. The structure is a couple of stories high but the cedar obscures most of it, some of the branches close enough to reach from his perch on the roof. White noise reaches him from the street, and while he sometimes crawls up to the apex of his roof to watch other people's lives proceed below, tonight he doesn't want to observe. With his temples pounding and his body aching, he just wants to be still and alone in his own head.

Sighing, he stretches out on the tartan blanket, staring up at the sky. There are no stars tonight, the cloud cover is just too dense. Listening to the night sounds and gradually relaxing, the tension in Edward's shoulders is replaced with weariness.

Edward bites resolutely into the crunchy, juicy flesh of the apple he's been holding between his teeth. He chews slowly, looking at the cedar. He's never before attempted to climb it, but always thought he would someday. Perhaps that day is here.

Edward picks at the apple, his teeth carefully and efficiently removing the tart, juicy flesh, before tossing it aside for birds and insects to find. Again, he thinks about climbing the tree, and wonders how high up he could get. It's a pretty tall tree, almost as tall as the ones he climbed throughout his childhood at his parents' place in Forks, and that was really saying something. Often he'd climb so high that Carlisle though he'd have to call the fire department to help him get down in time for dinner. And although Edward is sure her heart was in her throat sometimes while she watched him high up in the trees, Esme affectionately called him her monkey-child.

He remembers wistfully that once, a long time ago, he was fearless. He hasn't experienced that freeing euphoria in many years, but it's like chocolate, you can never forget the taste.

Sometimes, Emmett would climb with him, but he was heavier and less agile, and could never get quite as high in the canopy as Edward. It was an effective way for the younger boy to escape his big brother's pursuit if he got caught touching any of Emmett's fascinating possessions.

He eyeballs the cedar and suddenly finds himself on his feet, walking toward a branch that extends low over the roof of his warehouse. He swings himself up into it with ease, his old dexterity coming back to him immediately.

_Maybe that's because I've never grown up_. He isn't sure why this thought doesn't really amuse him, but maybe it's true. He refuses to immerse himself in life as though to preserve something, but in the end, he's missing out by holding himself apart, stagnating. He should possibly find the idea of what he's about to do a little silly and definitely dangerous by now, and yet here he is, relishing it instead, like a tree-climbing Peter Pan.

Edward grasps the wood with sure hands and swings his lithe body around the cedar until he reaches a perch high up off the ground. He wrestles himself onto a thick branch, shimmies backwards and presses his back again the tree's massive trunk. His legs wrap themselves around a gnarled branch, and he sits wedged into the goliath, looking out over the neighborhood. He can see for miles, and immediately feels calmed. Maybe this is what he needs to center himself again; no people there to agonize about, just nature and a feeling of being dwarfed by its presence. It's _this_ that he loved as a boy; this feeling of knowing something bigger than himself, something eternal that he could touch. He still can't see any stars, but there are plenty of other lights twinkling in the darkness over Seattle. _You can really smell the salt air up here._ He sits in the cedar, silent and staring like an owl, sensing the tree's fragrant essence and trying to grasp his own, in the silent, chill night.

Sometimes, it seems to him that he's lost his way. In moments of clarity, he understands that while he strives to express himself through his music, factually he is doing anything but. He plays his instruments with passion and an instinctive grace, and he knows that his understanding of the elements of music is there inside him, just as surely as his liver and his lungs are there inside him too, helping him function. But just as he knows that music is his life, he also feels that he's not really living it.

Edward has recently begun to realize that there is something missing inside him, something that prevents him from really moving forward. It inhibits the satisfaction he gets from writing and performing his own compositions. He knows they are good, but nothing has really punched him in the gut for a long time. He has composed countless pieces over the years, and yet, here he is still; a session musician, performing and recording other people's music. He feels as though he plays bit parts in other people's lives, instead of living his own. He attempted to raise the subject with Jas once but stopped himself short of really confiding in his friend. Would Jasper realize there was something wrong with him? Would he judge Edward for his perceived shortcomings? Was there really something there to discuss? Edward berates himself for missing something, for wanting more, when he doesn't even know what it is.

So, he plays guitar and poker, rolls a blunt and swigs beer with Jas instead. They stay up late and bitch about everything from lack of great tits on TV to whatever passes for music these days. They can go on for hours about Lizard People conspiracy theories to Jesse Ventura documentaries. But Edward is careful never to touch on the void inside himself or the passion he thinks he should feel. For a kid who grew up in a pretty privileged home, he is surprisingly unfulfilled. He thinks of himself as having everything he needs to be happy. He just… isn't.

He knows that he should be grateful for the chance to live out his life playing music, because there are a lot of people out there performing jobs they hate out of necessity. Still, he yearns for something inside of himself to spark, to speak a higher language and to make sense to his soul. At one stage, he thought he might go mad if this was all there was, this endless day-to-day trial and error of life. Perhaps he should wrestle these feelings to the surface and talk about them with Jas before he sinks into some sort of depression. Either that, or stop talking to Jas at all, ending their friendship before it's ended for him. Before he's outed as being completely socially inept or lame… or something.

He is suddenly regretful about not climbing any trees while visiting in Forks. _A whole week, wasted_. He's pretty sure that nobody except Esme would have missed him much had he spent the entire week ensconced in a pine tree, being as anti-social, morose and alone as he damn well pleased_ ...and fuck them all._ Well, at least now he knows he can climb this cedar whenever the mood strikes him.

Even buried this far inside his own head, his keen ears still register the sound: the opening of a window nearby. He sits up rigidly against the thick trunk and pans around, looking for the source and finds it coming from directly below and behind him. He freezes in his perch and looks down over his shoulder, careful not to make sudden movements.

The image he sees reminds him of a black and white photograph, sharp opaque shadows and flat white planes; a woman is leaning on her windowsill below. There is a lamp on inside her apartment, casting the angular outline of her shoulders and arms into black relief against the white window frame. Her hair is gathered off her face, braided and slung over one shoulder, and she's looking down into the courtyard below, facing away from the tree. Edward holds his breath, his body wanting to sink soundlessly into the trunk of the cedar to avoid detection.

_What is she looking at?_ He follows the direction of her gaze but can't make out anything below. The courtyard is in perfect darkness under the tree's canopy. Turning back to study the woman instead, Edward notes the perfectly roped braid as it rests, thick and heavy, on the smooth skin of her shoulder and chest. She's wearing some kind of corset, a black, rigid thing, pushing her breasts upward and together so they fluff up like little muffins. She looks petite, but the depth of the shadows created by the sparse light work in her favor, giving her a deep cleavage and an air of mystery, which really appeals to him. Always the dark against the light for Edward.

Shadows lie imperfectly across her bare back and shoulders, etching her like a Man Ray muse. Edward wishes he could see her face. He's fascinated by the way the light outlines her body. She's like a living, breathing drawing, the artist being the whimsical light and shadow cast by a lamp behind her. Unthinkingly, his eyes draw her contours onto the canvas in his mind.

She doesn't stay long, and it feels like only moments have passed when she rolls her shoulders a little and rubs her bare arms as though to warm herself up. Her face, obscured until now, finally turns toward the tree in which Edward hides, and it's not her eyes or mouth he sees, it's the exotic and unexpected black mask which sits across the bridge of her nose. His eyes widen at the sight, and he likes the contrast between her exposed shoulders and her hidden face, just as he likes the contrast between the black shadows and white skin. He stares at his fascinating neighbor, glad for the anonymity that his illicit tree-climbing has afforded him.

Just as suddenly as she appeared, the woman withdraws into her apartment, white limbs reclaimed, soft glow receding. Pale hands close the window and draw blinds, and Edward finally expels his breath freely. He waits a few minutes to make sure she isn't coming back, then carefully and slowly disengages himself from the tree, letting go of the branch that he has been clutching like a limpet for what seems like hours. Suddenly, he's so weary that he's shaking with exhaustion, and the climb down is a painful ordeal. He's incredibly fatigued by the time he reaches the roof of the warehouse, and dead on his feet as he climbs down the rungs of the ladder.

Back inside, Edward notices that the heaters have had very little effect in warming up the large, open warehouse. He's shivering, so cold that he can barely think. He paces a couple of erratic laps around his silent piano, wishing that he had the energy to play it and knowing that the concentration required is out of his grasp right now. His fingers are frozen, and he stretches them, red and stiff as they are, dragging them over his hair in a typically awkward gesture. _Fuck me, it's colder than a witch's tit in a brass bra!_

He stumbles into the bathroom. Before he can even form cohesive thoughts, he's stripping out of his clothes with awkward, shaking hands and then standing under the shower, his whole body tingling painfully under the almost scalding jets.

He scruffs his hair as it soaks up the water, turning it from an dirty mop into a smooth cascade over his face and neck. He stands still under the hot jets, dark waterfall hair over his face, mouth slightly open, hands clenching and unclenching in an effort to limber them up. He shampoos his hair briskly, fingers roughly raking and trying to wash away what feels like years of tension. Finally, he laces his fingers behind his neck and just stands there with eyes closed while the water massages him into a welcome oblivion.

Images pan through his mind, unbidden, unstoppable. The black mask is such a surprising enigma; why would anyone just walk around their apartment dressed like that?_ It's not fucking Halloween yet._ Admittedly, it looked great on her, very mysterious and most enticing. Coupled with the corset, the whole look was damn hot. He dwells on the image in his mind, welcoming the distraction. Other images soon invade, the windblown, wet hair and sad eyes of the pretty girl from the café with her pale skin and her doe eyes; she made such an arresting impression that somehow punched through his stupor.

Edward's thoughts turn carnal, and soon he's remembering his college dorm: Tanya and Irina on his bed, kissing and licking. After this, there's no going back. The images keep coming at him as he knew they would, and his hands travel over his wet torso, down to his groin. He passes open palms over the hardness of his belly with its smattering of hair, fingers traversing the well known distance to his cock, and he strokes himself lightly at first, thinking about Tanya and her ballet dancer's body. Tall and slim, winding with coils of muscle, all hidden power under the freckled skin. He used to love to watch her dance, she was beautiful when she was moving, and so full of passion and life. It was only when she was still that he could see through her beauty to her sinister core, though it took him a long time to see past his infatuation. If anyone had more issues than Edward, it was her. He still cringes when he remembers her tripping out leading to their break-up, acting out like a total psycho. He loved her so much that he forgave it all, until he couldn't anymore.

He pushes this disturbing image of her aside and replaces it with the one he always wants to remember. The one where she's happy-_ they're _happy, and then there's her hard, round ass, seasoned with years of dancing, and her pink hand on Irina's tan breast as they lick each other's mouths. He watches the action replay in his mind as they love each other on his bed, and just as he did then, he now cups his balls in the palm of one hand, while grasping his cock firmly with the other. He caresses himself gently at first, his fist closing more tightly as the vision plays out in his head, the pattern similar each time.

He remembers stumbling into his room that night and finding them together like that, mostly naked, exposed skin stained with each others lips. He was so shocked that he just stood in the door with his mouth open like a kid confronted with his first peek at boobs. He didn't realise they'd orchestrated it until willing arms and sweet kisses lead him onto the bed with them, inviting him to play, too. The memory of Irina's mouth kissing a trail along his spine while he positioned himself over Tanya's round behind is one that comes to him when he's feeling this way, Tanya's dirty blonde curls a mess over her back and his cock pulsing against her pale cheeks. He remembers pushing himself into the only soft place in her hard athlete's body, and groans at the memory of that all-enveloping heat, the sound bouncing in shards off the shower cubicle walls. The dark and the light, the hard and the soft, the lean lines of her body so beautiful to see and to feel.

Edward pours more shampoo into his palm and closes his hand tightly over himself, passing his fist over his cock firmly now, sliding the smooth foreskin up and over the swollen head, the delicious friction enhanced by his lathered hand. Feeling the swelling of warmth starting low down in his belly, he pumps himself in and out of his own fist with long, languid strokes, muscle and sinew flexing as his hips work themselves with the age-old motion.

His strokes become faster, and Tanya's freckly skin becomes translucent and oh-so-pale in his mind, and while he works his left fist, his cupped right hand fondles below. His eyes squeeze shut against the flow of water and the reality of the shower cubicle, and he watches entranced as his brain now substitutes light curls for a sleek black braid. He imagines his own hand wrapped around it, the heavy cord rolling around his wrist like a snake, smooth glossy hair between his fingers, while he pulls it and plows into incredible tightness below.

His breath comes out in little pants and he imagines huge black eyes hooded with a sexy mask and with pleasure and desire for him, for his cock. The hardness he thrusts into her from behind makes her eyelashes flutter and her glistening mouth opens, her dark lips defined in sharp relief against her white face. The woman in this fantasy is now all women, it's nobody and everybody Edward has ever desired.

His accommodating brain allows him to watch this from every angle. He watches pert tits bouncing in time with his thrusts at the same time that she takes him in her hot mouth and molds her tongue around him. Then she's rocking over him with abandon while riding his cock with her hair fanned out over them both, and sits over his face while he licks and sucks the moist flesh into his mouth, reaching up for her softness, everything all at once, everywhere, in every way.

And with this movie playing in his head, he comes hard into his own hand and all over the wall of the shower in spurting, hot splashes. With his teeth clenched and groaning deep in his throat, he braces himself with his hand flattened against the shower wall.

"Motherfucker," he whispers hoarsely, panting, feeling the jet of water on his skin once more. He stands like that for a long moment, calming himself.

Eventually, he turns off the water, steam rising from his scalded skin while he dries himself.

He crashes naked into his tangled sheets, only to do it all again in his bed when he still can't sleep for the cogs turning in his overheated brain.

He finally falls into a black, dreamless coma.

At some point, he thinks he hears someone crying.

He's too tired to wake up or care.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Marie stands next to the mural wall in the deepest shadows she could find, dragging her palm heavily across the rough surface. Again and again she rubs it, as though she can summon a genie to spirit her away from this shit, and from herself.

She knows that she'll return to Blondie's tomorrow in the hope of seeing the Rider, even if it's just to get up and leave the moment he arrives. She might deserve all she gets, but she's not a martyr; she's not about to put herself through watching him and the blond Glamazon play super sexy happy family. They're probably together right now, wrestling among silk sheets. It's difficult to describe the feeling of desperation at this thought, even to herself.

Earlier that afternoon, after getting home from the café, Marie fell asleep on the couch and dreamed her recurring dream again. She woke screaming from it, as usual. The images of red and bleeding ropes of her own insides being dragged out of her writhing body while she watches trapped inside, always have the same effect. The nauseating feeling of inertia as she roars through time to some sort of impending catastrophe sometimes makes her want to vomit.

Scrambling off the couch, she crawled into the wardrobe to find her corset and mask again. Slipping into them felt safe and familiar; comforting though uncomfortable with all the unforgiving hard stays and cramped lungs. She sat in her dark apartment as twilight fell, shadows deepening inside her and around her. Inside the wardrobe, the dirty money burned like a beacon and she cursed it for not being the focus of the intruder's visit. Trying to find the courage to proceed with her conviction, she nevertheless comforted herself with knowing that the costume would always be there, ready for her in case she couldn't go through with it. She eventually turned on some lights and opened some windows to air the place out. It stank of misery.

She wears her costume still, but the mural called to her from her opened window so that's where she stands again now, breathing in the dim evening. Steeling herself against another night in her own company, Marie fears a return of the dream; it leaves her so exhausted each time that she'd rather stay awake all night than face it again.

She's not sure when she started crying, but here they are: the telltale tear tracks drying on her cheeks, making her skin feel stretched taut. She's done crying now. She's exhausted.

Going back to bed feels like attending her own funeral, but eventually, she sleeps.

She does not dream.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading and doubly so for those who have time to review, it's always great to get constructive criticism on the story, the characters, anything that makes an impression on you. I appreciate it very much!


	11. Volta

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions._

* * *

One foot, then the other. Again. Again. Walking has never seemed so taxing before, but this short walk to Blondie's is decidedly torturous. _Will he be there? What if he doesn't come back for another week? A month? Not ever? God, could I __**be**__ more pathetic?_

Wanting to blend into the background, Marie huddles deeper into her sweatshirt and pretends that it's to protect her from the chilly wind, which is once again breathing down her neck. It's taken her most of the morning to get to a point where she felt she could leave the apartment and now that she's actually on her way to the café, her guts are churning with anxiety. She's almost sick with it.

_Would it be worse to continue to suffer if he doesn't show, or to be humiliated if he does?_

If he _doesn't_ come, her self-imposed sentence of keeping a vigil at the café will resume. If he _does_, she's doomed to watch her pathetic crush on him be ground to powder. Observing the interaction of lovers, especially if one of them is the sole focus of your secret passion, would surely be similar to gouging out your own eyeballs with a rusty spoon.

Still, she walks on, compelled.

Earlier that morning, she had woken to an unaccustomed feeling of comfort. During the night, she curled up into a little ball and taken all the blankets with her, resulting in a delicious cocoon of warmth. She hadn't wanted to leave its safety. When she finally crawled out of her bed, the first thing she did was to pick up the corset and mask which she had discarded in a pile on the floor, and put them away properly.

Just in case.

Then, she went downstairs and sat by the mural. Touching its colorful surface had felt like making home base, and she counted on it to give her the courage to get up and interject herself among the normal people again. Someone, a neighbor, had been playing music nearby, and the incredibly soothing sounds of classical piano had woven their smooth, colorful threads into her consciousness. She didn't know anything about this music, only that she liked what she was hearing. Before she realized, almost two hours had passed with her just reclining against the mural, watching the vine's leaves stir and rustle in the morning breeze. The sounds were diluted, coming to her through distance and bricks walls, but the rich depth of the piano had been undeniable.

Thinking about it now, Marie hears it in her head still, walking to Blondie's like a pig to slaughter, her stomach stuck in her throat.

Marie can see herself reflected in windows she passes as she walks to Blondie's. In her estimation there's not much to look at, she's all dark hair tucked away inside her hood and long jean legs lightly treading the pavement. She's so ordinary that she's almost invisible. She's beginning to get the hang of this, looking inconspicuous among people in the street. Nobody pays her any attention. It's liberating, and amusing. Nobody would know that she gets paid hundreds of dollars to doll up and then spread her legs. She's aware that the make-up and clothes make her look like a different person. They make her _feel_ like a different person as well. They make her feel like _Marie._

Then even from a distance, she notes the absence of the bike.

Her heart stops rebounding off the walls of her chest and she swallows the remainder of her anxiety. It's a bittersweet relief: he isn't there and the acute disappointment burns like bile in her throat.

She's confused by the conflicting feelings, trapped between wanting something so badly and yet dreading it. Marie finds herself more than a little upset that he's not there after all. She had been full of nervous energy all morning, and it's for nothing. It's such a let-down. Finally making it to Blondie's, Marie pushes open the door.

And then stops.

In fact, time stops.

He doesn't look up, but his presence alone has started a chain reaction across her skin. It's as though little bugs are crawling all over her with hundreds of their little prickly feet. Then, it's not just her skin, but her insides are warming as well, until the heat within and the cold without clash into a shudder that rushes through her whole body.

He is here, sitting in the same booth as before, the one that she herself has inhabited for an entire week. His head is lowered, propped up on his hand, and his fingers are buried in that auburn bed hair, absently flexing.

He's a big guy, imposing, though not bulky at all. More like a puppy, with its paws too big for its body. He seems too big to fit into the booth properly, as though he's had to fold up to get in the seat. He's buried so deeply inside his own thoughts that he never looks up as she enters, and Marie wonders if she can be in and out like yesterday without him noticing. Her body is already committed into the next step and the wind chimes above the door sound as she comes in. It's too late to back out quietly.

Allowing the door to softly swing closed behind her, she walks slowly to the counter. It's unattended, and she hopes someone heard the chime so she doesn't have to draw attention to herself.

Sharing a space with the object of her secret affection feels weird, charged somehow. It's impossible to tell whether the energy is generated by herself or whether it's his natural state - does he walk around like this, with random people just pulled into his orbit all day? She giggles nervously, imagining people thwacking into the Rider like magnetized pins.

Quickly silencing herself, Marie risks a look sideways from underneath her hood, and there it is, the same verdant green as she admires daily within her confidante, the mural. He is looking straight back at her with those expressive, penetrating eyes. There's nowhere to hide.

This was supposed to be her covert inspection of him, but he's watching.

He's watching real close.

Surprising herself, Marie straightens up and looks right back at him, determined to see everything she can. She's not going to be one of these shy, blushing wallflowers today though it's hard, so hard to remain standing when faced with those uncompromising eyes. He's observing her. She's under such close scrutiny that it's making her hair stand on end, but the payback is that she has the chance to really see him in return... and he's everything she thought he would be.

Intense, fascinating, beautiful: all these things apply, and more. Those heavy brows are like underlining a word, they give his face an accentuated ferocity. Looking into his eyes feels like she's Icarus, about to be burned by a green sun. She can feel the tar melting on her makeshift wings, and still she looks, wondering what price is to be paid.

Whatever it is, she knows she will pay it.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

There are nights where he tosses and turns to the tune of his mind working, hopelessly waiting for sleep to claim him. Then, there are nights like the last, where Edward sleeps like the dead.

He awakens slowly, quietly, to a warehouse filled with early morning sunlight. A weight on the sheets turns out to be the book he recovered yesterday, and he touches it briefly with his fingertips, wondering where it has been this past week. The girl who had it must live nearby, which is lucky, or else he might never have seen it again. He wishes he'd noticed her returning it; he would have liked to thank her for looking after it.

He yawns hugely, noticing the pleasant warmth within the warehouse. The little heaters have been going all night, and it's not the same cold, damp cave he came home to yesterday. He stretches long and hard, feeling it in his creaking sinews and in every muscle as he rolls out of bed.

Going on instinct, Edward ignores the scrambled score sheets laid out throughout the warehouse and spends the entire morning reacquainting himself with his instruments instead. The upshot of this is that he has started the day on a positive note. Nothing makes him happy like quality time with his friends.

Half-dressed and scruffy, wearing only his jeans, he scrubs his stubbly face with the heels of his hands and flops down onto the piano stool. As always, the ebony wing looms over him, protective and familiar. His bare feet find the pedals and he curls his toes into them, feeling the paradox of firm bakelite and yielding mechanism that drives it. He runs his fingers on the edge of the claviature, poising himself over the keys in the classic stance of a pianist. He smirks, remembering that when he was younger, it amused him to see tall people crouched over the piano like gargoyles, with claw-like hands splayed over entire octaves. Now, he's one of them. When he finally touches the ivory, a sigh of contentment escapes him.

He plays for hours, beginning the day with Chopin. The triple-time of polonaises has always felt good to him, and there is a real old-world romantic, chivalrous feel to them. He interprets his favorites slightly differently each time, testing where the sounds fall and the effect his fingers can achieve. Other compositions follow, and Edward allows himself to play whatever feels right to him, all morning.

It's not until late morning that he realizes he hasn't eaten anything since the apple on the roof, and that there is nothing in the warehouse to eat anyway. The thought of going grocery shopping hasn't so much as entered his mind since the previous afternoon. Going out to eat is the obvious next step. Reluctantly, he dresses and leaves the relative comfort of his home. Once at Blondie's, he takes his favorite place, tucking his long body into the booth with a well-practiced slide.

Soon, he's nursing a coffee with one hand while the fingers of the other shadow-play on the table, fingering a piece that's been knocking around in his head all morning. He loses track of time, enjoying the rare flares of sunshine as they diffuse on the window glass and make iridescent rainbows of his hand's pale skin.

Edward is focused so completely that though he hears it, he ignores the tinkling of the chime, and doesn't look up. He roughs up his hair absently and continues his fingering on the hard tabletop until he senses something. _Someone's watching me._

His eyes snap sideways and follow the peripheral movement as someone walks past him on their way to the front counter. Recognition strikes as he notes the girl's long, slim legs and a couple of dark coils of thick hair twisting their way out of the big hoodie. _Could it be?_

_Yes. _

She turns slightly as he watches, her profile in relief against the darkness of the hood that hides her face. A small, straight nose, determined chin, and the darkest eyes he's ever seen, darting toward him from under her lashes.

Instead of disappearing back into her hoodie, she straightens. Suddenly, Edward is the one under inspection, as she skewers him with her direct, pointed gaze. It's unexpected and disconcerting. He is stunned to realize that though she exudes an air of naiveté and youth through her demeanor and clothing, she is not the young girl he thought her to be. This is a woman whose eyes reveal nothing and everything at once. She is older than he thought when he saw her yesterday, and though she wears clothes that obscure her body and make her unremarkable, she's striking. Beautiful. His impression of her instantly shifts from that of a troubled girl to a woman with secrets, and ultimately, it's not her very pretty face that does him in, it's her dark, troubled aura.

He wants her secrets.

Just as the silent staredown reaches an awkward impasse, Rosalie appears at the counter, drawing the girl's attention away. Edward looks away, embarrassed now at having been caught staring, and wonders if he should approach her or if that would seem too forward. His long fingers drum the table nervously, but before he can make up his mind, she's back from the counter and standing next to his booth with her cup in between both hands, eyes darting between his own. When her lush mouth opens, she trips over her own quiet words.

"Hey. I mean... hi."

"Hi," he says absently, eyes trained on her lips. They're so pale, he didn't notice how shapely they were until they moved around her words. Moments tick by and he's still staring as she begins to turn away, her eyes falling until they're resting momentarily on his still-tapping hand. Breaking eye contact has the effect of jarring him back into the moment and he finds himself doing something oddly spontaneous.

"Can I buy you a coffee?" he blurts out, before she can turn away completely. She stops moving altogether.

"You can buy it, but I don't drink coffee." She deadpans, her sideways glancing dark eyes once more on his, drilling down and cutting through. Edward has never felt more exposed.

He takes a deep breath and tries again. "I want to thank you for returning my book. It was you, wasn't it?" His voice is raspy, edged with uncertainty.

"It's the least I could do, seeing as I practically stole it in the first place," she replies after a moment. Edward notes that she hasn't moved an inch since he started speaking.

"Do you want to sit?" he asks quietly.

She's looking at him with uncertain eyes, and Edward straightens up in his seat, a small smile lifting one side of his mouth. From under the security of her dark hood, the girl's ink black eyes seem to be fixed on his mouth, and Edward suddenly feels very self conscious.

"It's Edward. My name. My name is Edward." If there ever was a moment when he wanted to be swallowed up by the earth, it's now. _Why am I so fucking nervous?_ He feels his face heat up with embarrassment.

"Ma... Bella. I'm Bella," she says, and her own face answers in a matching shade of discomposure. _Now we're a coordinating pair, _he thinks, liking her warm voice.

Slowly, shyly, her hands lift to her face and she pushes the hoodie off. It rests over her shoulders like a cowl, with her lovely thick hair coiling in glossy tentacles across her throat and the front of her hoodie.

_She's really beautiful,_ he thinks, but not a conventional beauty. She's no model, her features are not perfect enough. It's the imperfections that draw him. Now that he can really see her, it's the freckles across the bridge of her nose, the defiant chin, her full bottom lip that make her irregular beauty so striking. He loves the way her eyes hold his as she finally seats herself across the table. _What is she thinking?_ They're so dark that they're almost black, forming such a stark contrast to her pale, delicate face. Her unwavering stare heats up his skin, his nerves alighting with the challenge. He winces inwardly, wishing he'd done more than roughly towel-dry his hair after his shower last night. He must look like a fucking hobo.

A bruise is aging on her face. It stains her cheekbone, starting to come through in yellows and greens. Small grazes criss-cross over it and though they're almost healed it still looks quite painful. He wants to ask about it, but it's too soon. It's none of his business.

"Ma-Bella," he quips, smiling at her, hoping to put her at ease with the play on her halting answer. She snorts lightly, aware of how silly she sounded just now. Her eyes return to his mouth, and he's intensely conscious of her gaze resting there. Those eyes are such a lovely shape, like almonds outlined in black lashes. _So goddamn dark._

She's looking at him again through this loaded, uncomfortable silence, in that funny way that makes him want to crawl into her head and sift through everything with his bare hands to find out what she's thinking this very moment. Right then and there, Edward decides that he's completely fascinated. It's like beneath the surface her mind races, just like his does.

He wants to get to know her, if she can look past the hobo hair and three-day growth.

_I want your secrets, Ma-Bella._

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Bella feels as though the blood in her veins has stopped flowing, shocked into stillness by the sound of his voice. She can see him, and he's definitely directing words at her. She thinks she might have answered him too, but has no idea what she just said. Her mouth is on autopilot and her brain has gone on emergency manoeuvres, pending imminent meltdown.

She might have stopped breathing.

_Did I just tell him my name_?

Fuck.

Then, he looks right at her, his mouth lifting in that one-sided smile again, and her insides fuse together in a way that leaves her stomach in a hot, knotted mess and her lungs heaving for air. _Edward._ The Rider has a name, and his name is _Edward_.

Faced with the feeling of his intense green eyes mapping her face, Bella finds it impossible to remain guarded._ No regrets_. But, she knows deep down why she told him her real name. She wants to keep him as far from Marie as possible. This, and today, for the first time in forever, she feels like Bella Swan. It's been a long time. Years, in fact.

She's not sure if it was the right thing to do, given that she's just moved apartments in order to throw off a dog-murdering car vandal. This past week has been so emotional for her that she's at a loss to know what she should be feeling.

So, she sits across from Edward in the red booth, watching and cataloguing his expressions with the fastidiousness of an obsessed lover, knowing she has no right to stake such a claim.

They talk haltingly, both thinking so much more than they're saying, these people of few words with overactive minds.

At one point, her hackles rise, and she has a distinct feeling of being watched. She's so jumpy that she could swear she just saw someone ducking out of view outside, hiding behind a column across the road.

Now and again, her eyes drift to the kitchen, expecting the Glamazon to step in and put an end to this unexpected turn of events.

Until that happens, Bella is going to lie in the sun, basking in its light. His light.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading and doubly so for those who have time to review, it's wonderful to know about the things that you pick up on! Some of you are incredibly astute, drawing my attention to nuances of this story that I hadn't really given much thought to, which is an absolute trip. I appreciate it very much!


	12. Mirage

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions._

* * *

Starting to realize the extent of her hopeless infatuation, Bella tries desperately to keep her head above water. Sitting across from Edward, separated only by a laminated table and the loaded air they're both breathing, she imagines feeling the texture of his stubbly chin in the palm of her hand. They've exchanged few words, but her eyes are snagged on his lips as she waits for him to break the heavy, stifling silence between them.

The pressure is killing her.

"So, the book, Bella. Thank you, really." His hand is in his hair once more, bent fingers pushing back the thick, unruly mop. The compulsive movements are hypnotic, his fingers shaped into claws before they even get into his hair. She watches, entranced.

"I'm glad it's yours." _Oops, no need to advertise one's obsession..._ "I mean, I'm glad I gave it to the right person." She wants to say his name out loud. It's such a classic name but still not encountered every day. "You read a lot, Edward?" It feels good to say it. Solid._ Edward._

"Sure. You?"

"Yeah... it's one of my favorite pastimes." _My only pastime. _She wonders what Edward might think if he knew she's spent the entire week fantasizing about him, having never even seen him up close.

"Well, this book is one of my favorites. I'd really miss it, it's kind of like an old friend, you know?" His voice is a hypnotic mix of smooth and husky. He looks interested in her words. It's not something she encounters very often and it throws her off balance. She finds herself weighing each word most carefully before letting it out of her mouth.

"It's my old friend, too." Bella says, smiling. Having returned his copy, she has retrieved her own. It awaits her return, lying on the couch back at the apartment, even though she actually finished reading his. For the umpteenth time, she ghosts her palm over her own face, conscious of the fading bruise that he must have noticed. She wishes she'd remembered to cover it with make-up but was so distracted that she didn't even think of it this morning.

_You made some interesting notes in the margins_, she wants to say, but her mouth is not functioning under her command today. She recalls the looping script adorning the margins of his copy of the book, and wonders at the schism between the neat, old-fashioned writing style and this scruffy, sexy, vital young man sitting close enough to touch. Is it possible that both represent facets of the same person?

Edward's face looks almost comical in his surprise. "Oh yeah? You know this book? You like it?" His fingers dance and flex absently over the laminate of the table between them.

"I love it," she admits quietly, absorbing every nuance and every gesture. She feels like she's having an out-of-body experience, sitting this close to him. "The book, and the movie, too."

"_Penitenziagite_!" Edward abruptly shouts, in a voice which is the perfect imitation of the misshapen, doomed Brother Salvatore.*

Bella's face lights up in delight and she claps her hands like a wide-eyed girl. His imitation is absolutely dead-on. He looks pleased at her reaction, eyes crinkling as a brilliant smile erupts on his face and stops her brain function completely. Her own face is like a mirror, reflecting every emotion he shows, back to him. Suddenly, Bella feels horribly exposed. She reigns herself in and makes a real effort to compose her face. But no matter what she does, a smile lingers, forcibly extracted despite herself, and all the while she watches shadows play on his skin as the muscles move under it. She marvels at the miracle that someone like him lives and breathes, and sits across from her within arm's reach- she didn't even know it was possible to be this attracted to someone.

"I really love the historical aspect," says Edward, fingers on the move again, scratching over his jaw. "It just really takes me to that place and time, you know? It's not just a murder mystery; it's a chronicle of the way of life in the 14th Century. I just find it really fascinating..." He trails off, as though he's worried that he's said too much.

_Yes. Endlessly fascinating. Like you._ Bella memorizes the shape of his eyes, the color of his skin and watches the tips of his fingers scrub roughly over his jaw again. _Is he self-conscious about the scruff? Doesn't he know how delicious he looks, and how real? _Being buffeted mercilessly by all his beautiful human nuances is overwhelming and her defences are starting to fold. Edward's hands are never still, and their fidgety movements are mesmerizing. He doesn't seem aware of the fact that he is never ever still, that something is always moving, twitching and working.

"And then, of course, there are the delightful brown habits. Who wouldn't love those coarse, itchy bastards?" Edward deadpans, attempting to lighten things up. He's rewarded with a laugh and a slight ease in her posture.

"How do you know they're coarse and itchy?" Bella counters.

"I'm assuming. Certainly it was well before the time of fabric softener. It stands to reason."

"Maybe they used natural ingredients."

"Like what?"

Bella has absolutely no clue. "Urine. I don't know..." the rose tint of her blush rises until it's almost as bright as the crimson vinyl booth they inhabit. A moment of silence ensures.

"So... you think that they soaked their hair shirts and habits in urine. To soften them." Edward says slowly, exerting a mammoth effort not to so much as crack a smile. She doesn't answer, and it's his turn to watch her, beguiled at the way the color sweeps over her skin like a Mexican Wave. He can only hold it in for a moment before exploding with laughter. Bella laughs too, with relief at the easing of tension.

Eventually, they're both calm, and the charge in the air is back, enveloping them thickly and coating every word with meaning.

"Have you... do you live around here?" Edward falters as his eyes bore into her, assessing, deciphering. Somehow, she needs to make it appear as though she's not hungrily staring at him, but listening intently instead. It's sweet torture, butterflies and held breaths, and though she's a grown woman, Bella has never experienced these feelings before. It's all getting to be too much, the recent stress and fear have made her so sensitive that she's totally uncomfortable exploring positive feelings right now.

This excitement, this unbound thrill as she watches him is devastating to her nerves. It's like a flurry of tiny wings caught in her belly, fluttering light and high. Bella is furiously trying to stay on track with their conversation through the emotionally charged moments they're sharing. She draws the shapes of his features in her mind over and over again as though to reduce them to ellipses and curlicues. She counts the interlocking shapes as though they were cracks in the pavement, and she a fully-blown obsessive-compulsive.

"Yes, not far from here. Not far at all." She manages to answer, wondering if he too lives nearby, anticipating and dreading his reply.

"Oh really? Me too, just up the road." Edward says, his already expressive eyes lighting up his entire gorgeous face. The way he's looking at her is like she's just told him he's won his weight in donuts. His eyes flick to her mouth, and then his gaze caresses the curve of her cheek, rests there a moment and eventually returns to her eyes. The path is branded into her skin as though it were drawn with a sharp stick. It won't be ignored. _Sizzle, scorch, burn_. He smiles at her, knowing that he's been caught in his appraisal.

She should be elated at this attention, this hint that he finds her attractive, and excited that they live close to each other, which might mean she gets to see him again sooner rather than later. Instead, she feels the need to backtrack, to cool off, to slow down. She's suddenly fearful of him, scared that he's showing interest in her as a person. _A woman._ Only days ago, he was completely out of reach. So much has changed in a matter of minutes that her head is still spinning.

She never expected this, never really wanted it. She hoped only to admire him from afar, and yet here she is, sitting with him, talking, having him respond with interest and care. It's taking up all of her energy just to sit here and act like they're having a friendly chat. Her eyes dart toward the kitchen once more, and she spies the Glamazon busying herself behind the counter.

Oddly, the woman appears to be taking very little notice of Edward and Bella.

Then again, it's not like she has any competition._ She's taking no notice because I'm nothing for her to worry about._

Bella should feel depressed at this, but instead, it's comforting to know that her non-threatening persona might mean the Glamazon doesn't care about them chatting. Maybe Bella can just sit here and absorb Edward the way baking soda absorbs liquid. Maybe she can be illuminated by his aura. Maybe she can just be allowed to enjoy his company.

All she needs to do is stay on her guard and get as much as she can while keeping herself, and especially any hints of_ Marie,_ well away from his scrutiny, tucking her away the same way she tucked the corset and mask away into their boxes in her closet. Still, she can't completely shake the feeling that something is waiting, and watching. She functions as though on the edge of sleep, lulled into a false sense of security and only barely aware of something lurking on the periphery. When not taken with Edward, she still looks over her shoulder.

The conversation continues haltingly, awkwardly. They're both full of silent, unvoiced questions and rephrased, agonized answers. The book that has inadvertently brought them together is a safe haven, where words can be exchanged without price. They laugh at each others' favorite parts and remember the stories within the story, swapping impressions, all while greedily storing away subtleties and captivating details about each other.

Edward loves the ingenious methods of dispatching the hapless monks to coincide with signs of the final apocalypse and Bella's love of history and books is piqued by the descriptions of the monastery, the library and the lifestyle of its less-than-holy, cowled inhabitants.

When she describes the sweeping vistas of the European winter landscape and Eco's incredible, rich imagery throughout the story, Edward watches her face light up from the inside like a pretty paper lantern, wondering why his chest constricts a little. Her eyes are far away as she talks, carrying Edward's imagination with them. He's enthralled.

They both love the feeling of impending doom that accompanies each event in the story- the fatalism appeals to Edward's inner artist and to Bella's closet romantic, and both have a fascination for the author's hint that it might be based on factual events and real-life locations, which have long turned to dust under the weight of centuries. Both Bella and Edward love that the story of Adso of Melk transcends his seemingly banal human existence so many hundreds of years ago, because in turn, they each feel like specs sometimes, not even a blip on the radar of humanity.

"There's so much in there that I still don't understand though," Bella muses, her eyes on Edward's beautifully turned hands, which always seem to be in motion.

"Oh yeah?" He asks, drumming erratically on the tabletop.

"All those offshoots, those weird religions, how did they even start? It's like a guy woke up one day and thought: I'm going to reinterpret the Bible and start a new religion today.' I mean, was it as simple as just gathering peasants as they travelled from village to village? I can imagine they lived a pretty basic, discontented existence... were they all just waiting for something to get carried away with?" She looks genuinely perplexed, and Edward loves the way her mind works. He has often revelled in a feeling of being part of something bigger than himself, though never under the guise of organized religion.

"I guess so, because that's exactly what happened! If they'd stayed small, they might have gotten away with it too." Bella knows he's referring to the systematic extermination of rogue heretics as they grew popular enough to show up on the radar of the Church. "Can't say I haven't thought about it..." he trails off, looking at her pointedly and nodding.

"Thought about what?" Bella's eyes are smiling and curious.

"Starting my own religion. Growing fat on the tithes of the poor." He pretends to ponder, tapping a finger against his chin. Unnoticed, her eyes are glued to said finger. They smile sheepishly at each other.

"I'll call it Edward's Church of Meatetarianism. For people that like to eat meat. Lots and lots of meat. I mean, if the Pastafarians can do it, then surely it's alright."

Bella holds the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling laughter. She loves the earnest look in his eyes as he tries to sell her his ridiculous concept.

"All I need is the time, Bella. Think about it," he says in mock seriousness. "So, what do you do anyway? Can you quit your job immediately, and help found my new religion? Surely you see how important this is."

Bella's smile falters. Finally. There it is. That moment where she knows that she's not quite Bella, and still quite _Marie_. She can't answer this question, doesn't know how to even start. This is when she realizes that she has no business talking to him. There isn't enough in the world that they might have in common, that would help gloss over this one simple fact; she will always be _Marie_. It's not a stain that can be soaked out. She's _Marie_ in her bones.

When she first laid eyes on him just over a week ago, she remembers thinking that despite his beautiful veneer; he could be a thief, a junkie, or worse. Then, she realized.

_I am the worse._

Bracing herself with her palms against the laminate, Bella slides out of the booth and stands alongside it. Edward looks up, his eyes full of surprise. They're wide open, sage green, reflecting her silhouette back to her with perfect clarity. She wishes she could get close enough to not see herself mirrored in them anymore. She can't stand to mar their insane color with the grey shadow of her.

"Sorry, I need to... be somewhere," she chokes out awkwardly. She has no idea what she was going to say before she started speaking and has no explanation ready for why she's walking out in the middle of their seemingly casual conversation.

"Right..." His words trail off into the noise of the cafe, and his eyes drop to her hands, which are wringing each other like sparring snakes. She stills them with great effort and gives Edward a small, apologetic smile. She reaches for ner near-empty cup and sandwiches it between clammy hands to keep them still.

Looking back to the kitchen, she can see the Glamazon girlfriend bustling about with dishes. Bella has no idea what else to say to him. Self-preservation won't allow her to put herself on the line and compete with that woman; the rejection would be too painful to contemplate. It's like she's already lived through it, and in her head, she has. Her shoulders slump a little and she grows more accepting. Resigned. Edward follows her eyes, leaning out of the booth slightly to see what she's looking at.

"What's the matter?" His eyes are back to her, quizzical. She can feel them on her face, waiting.

"Nothing. She's very beautiful." She's almost tempted to say 'congratulations.' It's ridiculous to be feeling this way: petty, wistful and jealous all at the same time, as though she has some sort of claim on him. Slowly, carefully so he doesn't see, she pinches the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist. The gratification is immediate, the pain sharp. It's calming.

"Who, Rosalie? Sure," Edward says, matter-of-factly, looking toward the kitchen where the Glamazon is currently unloading the dishwasher. She embellishes that mundane and simple task with her presence alone, with her golden sorority hair and her Arizona blue-sky eyes. Bella's heart breaks a little bit for how happy they must be together, these beautiful people.

She drags her eyes back to him. He looks hopeful. Eager. _What's this?_

"So listen, can I buy you a hot beverage sometime?" He looks at the cup she's holding, then pointedly back at her. "You know, just to cement my gratitude."

_Oh._

"She won't mind?" _What a stupid thing to say._ It came out before she could think about her answer, which now implies that yes, he can buy her a hot chocolate under the proviso that his girlfriend doesn't mind. _Dumbass._

"What do you mean?" His eyes are smiling, their green life force kick-starting her heart. "I'm sure she won't mind another couple of bucks in the till. But... we can go somewhere else if you like."

_Oh!_

_I think I have my wires crossed. _Not even a guy this handsome would set up dates within earshot of a girlfriend. She's seen all types, but none that cocky and cruel.

Bella decides to play it cool. She's not going to come right out and ask him if the Glamazon is his lover, but she's going to get her answer right here. Right now. Her sanity is at stake.

"Well, you guys seem close. I don't want her to think I'm a hot chocolate digger."

He laughs an easy, unaffected laugh, full of actual mirth. "Hot chocolate, is it? Well then, can I buy you one of those? There's no point wasting money on a coffee you won't drink."

She stares at him, unblinking. She knew she was in trouble from the moment she saw him, but for his brilliant smile to actually stop the breath in her chest is frightening. Bella is free-falling into his orbit and can't even muster the will to put up her hands and save herself. It's an absolute disgrace that she should feel so much, so quickly. She doesn't even know him, but it doesn't seem to matter. Her common sense is not cooperating. It's too busy mooning over the slightly-scruffy-artist look that Edward is working.

She can't say no, even though she should.

"Sure." She falters, stopping short of setting up an actual date, seeing as he hasn't actually picked up on her quip about them being close, though she's almost positive now that she misconstrued their relationship based on witnessing that one fleeting touch. Internally relieved, she's grateful that she never actually voiced the question which would have given away her own intense interest in him. She looks away from him, anywhere, just to internally shake off his influence like a dog shakes off excess water. Edward's presence is infecting her mind, making her stupid. She can't think with him looking at her. It's absolutely terrifying.

Looking around the place, she skims over a couple of chatting friends, relaxed and pedestrian in their middle class cardigans. In the corner of the cafe sits an old man, making no pretence of the fact that he's two-knuckles deep inside his own nostril.

Sobering. _Back to mooning over Edward, then_.

Bella realizes that a few moments have passed, longer than the ebb and flow of a normal conversation would allow. Edward is now eyeing her speculatively, perhaps trying to decipher if she's a sandwich short of a picnic. It's no wonder, since she's back to just staring at him like a silent loon.

Edward looks at her expectantly. "Tomorrow?"

She's still standing by the booth, looking down into his upraised face, fighting a sudden urge to pull him up to her by his ears. There is a strange sensation of losing the Rider and gaining an Edward. Now that they've spoken, her unattainable ideal has vanished, replaced by this very real, approachable and desirable man.

This is so much more interesting and scary and confronting than just a physical attraction. There have been good-looking clients over the years, people whose bodies she has enjoyed as much as they have enjoyed hers. This is different. It's the pull that starts deep inside and freezes nerves like an ice-cream headache. It's the sickening drop in the gut as the elevator plunges from beneath your feet faster than expected. It's the dimple in his cheek and the big, deep-set feline eyes with their heavy brows that see too much and leave her feeling so exposed. It's the twitch of his fingers against the laminated surface and the slight curling of hair at the nape of his neck. It's all of these things and none of them. It's a feeling of connecting the dots, even though the big picture is lost among the details.

_This is stupid. What, you think you're in love? Get a fucking grip on reality here. Love isn't for girls like you._

Love is for girls that haven't had to be pumped full of Narcan.**

It's not for girls with drawers full of crotchless panties and condoms.

All this self-hatred in the space of a few seconds, and meanwhile, Edward waits patiently for Bella's reply. It should be simple, really. It should just be an easy thought process. _Sure Edward! I really like you, and I'd love it if you bought me a drink tomorrow, so we can chat some more and I can stare at you when you're not looking and maybe we can get to know each other, now that I'm fairly certain that the Glamazon isn't closely acquainted with the exact hue of skin under your clothes. And fuck it, even if she is, because there's something about you that makes me feel as good as the sun on my face after a storm, and my breath implodes in my lungs every time you fucking smile._

Instead, she stands there, thinking of all the reasons this shouldn't be happening, and she hasn't even begun to touch on what would happen if he ever found out that she's in the game. She'd sooner choke on her own bile than let those words fall out of her mouth. It's not something a normal person could overlook or forgive. The stain might fade in time, like the bruise on her face, but it will never disappear. Like the scar on her secret self.

Still, what comes out of her mouth is: "Sure. Tomorrow. Same time." The bruise burns like a brand on her cheek and she covers it with her hand, smiling down at him with her big smile, like the one that she felt on her face the day she brought home her little doomed dog. He answers her with his own wide smile, the one that shoots her into the sky and sends her hurtling into space with stars reflected in her eyes like cartoon sparklers.

She can feel his eyes on her as she leaves Blondie's, and realizes that she's tired of trying to stay away from him.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Edward looks down at his phone to make sure the call is connecting, it's taking a long time but he can see that it hasn't dropped out. He lifts it to his ear once more and waits for the ringing tone, but gets Jasper's voicemail instead. He listens while the sun sets outside Blondie's, the orange glow turning his green eyes into gold.

"_This is Jasper. Please leave a message._" Jas' deep voice answers, sounding so professional and businesslike.

"Hey man, it's Edward. Call me when you get this."

Putting his cell down by his almost empty cup, he thinks of Bella, and her elusive way. There is undoubtedly something about her that defies classification. The unknown quantity. He loves the enigma. Lost in thoughts of her gestures and smiles, Edward is startled when his phone begins to ring. It's Jasper.

"Hey."

"What's up, Ed? You rang?" Jasper's voice is thick with sleep, which is odd, since it's almost evening.

"Yeah. You OK? Haven't seen you in..." Edward screws up his face, calculating. "Shit, it's been almost two weeks."

"Yeah, I guess it's been a while. Are you back from Forks now?"

"Yeah, came back a couple of days ago. Had enough of the familial bliss. Any more fucking bliss and I would have ODd on it."

Jas snorts, and then whispers something away from the phone, obviously covering it with his hand.

"Aah, sorry Jas. You've got company." Edward says quietly, a little disappointed that he won't get to chat to his friend.

"No man, I _am_ the company." Jasper laughs, his voice husky.

"So you're staying in Bellingham a while?" Edward remembers that this is where Jasper's new girlfriend lives.

"No, I'm coming back tomorrow, I think. I'm not sure exactly when yet," The muffled whispering resumes, and Edward realizes that this conversation is over. He laughs, the sinking sun bright enough to make him squint his eyes against it.

"Alright, I'll see you when you get back. Oh, Jas?" he adds quickly, before Jasper hangs up. "You got any of that tea left lying around?" Jasper will get that Edward means the dope that Jas usually keeps in a little tea tin.

"I don't know- but if it's there, help yourself. I'll pick up some more on the way home. See you soon, yeah?"

"Yeah. See you then."

It's an easy friendship they share. They know each other pretty well. Edward hopes that nothing will change now, though Jasper must be pretty serious about this new girl, staying with her as long as he has. He's normally such a private, reserved person. The fact that they were probably sharing an afternoon nap tells Edward a lot about how serious Jasper must be about her, whoever she is. He sighs, suddenly wistful, wishing them luck but knowing that it comes at a price; his and Jas' bachelor-style existence is coming to an end.

He leaves Blondie's with the intention of scrounging through Jasper's tea tin and hopefully rolling a blunt, then listening to some Hendrix. Edward's mind feels more stimulated and yet somehow more relaxed than it has in weeks. Maybe he could daydream away the remainder between now and the next time he gets to see Bella, thinking of her dark eyes and her opaque shield, like a suit of armor over her mind. Ever the enigma.

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**A/N:** Thanks again for reading! I was just thinking earlier about the poor souls (aka LightStarDust and ms-ambrosia) who continue to try to beat the purple out of me. Of course, the moment their backs are turned, I go back and sprinkle everything with more lavender than inside Prince's wardrobe. Alas, old dog, new tricks and all that.

*** Penitenziagite: **A call to action, meaning 'Repent' (a short version of the Latin phrase '_Poenitentiam act, appropinquabit enim regnum caelorum'_,meaning: 'Repent, the kingdom of heaven is at hand') as employed in the 13th Century by disciples of Fra Dolcino; the Dolcinites. The phrase appears in _The Name of the Rose_, book and film.

**** Narcan:** A drug administered to victims of a Heroin overdose.


	13. Meridian

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions._

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**Chapter Soundtrack:** Subterranean Homesick Alien, Radiohead

* * *

Walking back to her apartment is a little surreal, as though she's on stilts, or someone else's legs again. _How does he do this, how does he make me feel this way? _Bella feels that wacky smile on her face still, as though she made a face when the wind changed and now she's stuck that way. It's entirely possible that the smile is bigger than her actual face.

The smile says Edward, Edward, Edward, EdwardEdwardEdward. _Edward_.

It's bizarre. She hardly knows him. He could still be an asshole, they've hardly exchanged anything more than pleasantries and some basic information. She knows all this in her head, but inside, her ribcage is too small to contain the explosive feelings. It's as though beneath his skin and behind his eyes, she knows him.

It's like _she knows him_.

Bella has never heard him speak before today but the sound of his voice resonates inside her as though it's familiar. The feeling is akin to recognition. Her eyes have been opened to him and now she can see him even underneath her eyelids, burning like a residual flash of too-bright light. It's not just his physical appearance either, though God knows he's fucking gorgeous with the lopsided smile and intense, unwavering eyes.

It's strange that one face could present such different facets, but his does- to someone that wants to look carefully. And Bella wants to, _God_, she wants to. When his face lights up in a smile, he looks like a little boy, carefree and hopeful. When he's pensive and staring out of the window, his profile looks as serious and aristocratic as that of a Roman senator. Beyond all that, however, is more than the sum of all parts. Beyond that is a spark that she's never experienced before and which fires a blaze inside her, cooking her insides over a deliciously agonizing flame.

The sound of that incendiary crackling in her head sounds like _want him, want him, want him, want, want, want closer, closer, CLOSER, put your hand in the fire, walk on the coals, burn away your resistance, dive into the volcano... _all with the tantalizing promise that she might rise from the ashes like a burned-clean phoenix.

She unlocks and then shoves the front door with her shoulder to pop it open, and realizes that she has been thinking of herself as _Bella_ from the second she gave him her name. She grins, thinking that she might not ever be _Marie _again.

It's a turning point. For the first time, she begins to consider that she could give this thing a go. She could put everything behind her and just start again, live a life without all this shit. She could meet Edward tomorrow and attempt a friendship. A connection.

Bella bums aimlessly around her apartment for the rest of the day with the latent feelings unfurling deep inside. When night catches up with her, she sleeps restlessly, tangled in her bed as though snagged on seaweed. This time, it's not her gut-wrenching nightmare that she sees under her rolling, twitching eyelids; it's Edward, Edward, _Edward_. For a moment, she's intensely sad to wake up from this dream of whispers and warmth, until the moment when she realizes she's meeting him at Blondie's, and then it's as though she has never moved faster nor jumped higher. She bounces out of bed grinning like a fiend.

The next two days are almost a blur, or at least they would be, if Bella didn't play everything over and over in her head to the point of nausea. Meeting Edward at Blondie's quickly becomes the focus of her waking hours, just as coveting him has become the focus of her sleeping ones. Making this connection is so important to her, she can't believe that she survived for so long without it. It's as though up until now, she's been a visitor to her own life. She doesn't deserve him, and will never have him, but knowing these things doesn't stop her wanting. She hasn't felt this alive, this vulnerable, in years.

Finally sitting across from him is like sliding your feet into fine, dry beach sand. It feels wonderful and at the same time, totally unstable and shifting beneath her.

"You look nice today," Edward says quietly, giving her a tiny grin and squinting at her. He looks sheepish, and Bella is incoherent with joy. She looks down at herself to see what she's wearing, wondering what would have prompted him to say such a thing. It's nothing out of the ordinary: jeans and a long raglan sleeve tee, black flats, headband over her untied hair. Bella wants to apply whatever sweet torture would be required for him to spill the reason for making that last comment. She wants to wring the truth out of his mouth with kisses.

If questioned directly, Edward might say that she looks vibrant scrubbed clean and that her fresh waterfall hair smells good, but she'd be incredulous. Silently he would muse that these plain, unfeminine clothes slide so enticingly against the curve of a breast or the length of her leg, the sentiment spilling from his appreciative eyes. But, if If he told her these truths, she wouldn't be able to accept them.

Bella wonders at how incredibly easy it is to talk to him once they really get started. Edward is witty and funny, and his self-deprecating humor is so endearing. She smiles at him with her whole face, her whole being. He tries, subtly, to prod her about her life, and his curiosity is honest; not prying, just interested. She somehow manages to avoid his questions, dancing around them like a toreador around an enraged bull.

"What do you do?"

"I don't do anything," she says with a smile in her eyes.

"You've gotta do something." He thinks it's a game. "Do you study?"

"No... I'd like to." Bella doesn't even know where this answer came from. It's complete news to her, but she realizes it's the truth. Maybe she could finish high school. How bizarre; the idea doesn't sit too badly with her.

"I just thought, you know... because you seem to love books."

Bella just smiles back, silent. She could explain that she has cartons upon cartons of books bought from the thrift stores and that they're her substitute lives- the moments she doesn't get to experience for herself. There are paperback novels and coffee-table art books; there are Stephen King horrors and historical biographies. There are a great many that she will never pick up again, though she hoards them. And there are very few, just like _The Name of The Rose_, that she has already read numerous times and will read again to get back into the comfort of that headspace. Those well-read favorites are her little escape. She suddenly realizes that for the first time, she has ventured out and made herself vulnerable with a real person, rather than immersing herself into the comforting ink and paper world. She can't put him down the way she would a confronting book. Her hands are clammy just thinking about it.

Edward, somewhat perceptively, doesn't push. He makes it easy for Bella to keep up the pretense that she is a good person, just a girl sitting in a booth and not an obscene cartoon monster, tapping impatiently on the table with her whore claws that itch for him.

It's a surprise that she makes it through another day like this, somehow lucid in his presence but a churning tornado within.

On the following morning, she realizes it's been three days since their first exchange in this very booth, and there are shadows under Edward's eyes today, the tired grey dampening the sage green. He's still so new to her that no matter how many times she draws the contours of his eyes with her own, she can't get enough of their intensity or their singular shape. The color of his eyes catches her unaware with every glance- each time is like the first time. Bella wonders if bewilderment is showing on her face as clearly as she thinks it is. Edward makes her all kinds of stupid.

Through those wonderful, tense and heady moments, Bella holds the hot chocolate that Edward buys for her between her palms. She wraps her fingers around the cup and clutches it to her lest her hands flutter over to his side of the table.

"I just didn't get much sleep," she tells him when he notes how tired she looks.

"Me neither," he says quietly.

He doesn't tell her that he woke in the middle of the night to the sounds of a woman crying, her quiet sobs whispering to him through the veil of his normally light sleep. He doesn't mention that somehow compelled, he got up and played for that nameless woman for hours, until his fingers ached, then numbed, along with his shoulders. When he started playing, the crying became sniffling, which in turn became silence. Edward doesn't know if the woman listened to him play, or for how long. Nevertheless, he played for her his favorite melody, his own, until he almost passed out at the keyboard.

What Bella doesn't mention is that she woke from a nightmare in a cold and clammy bed, covered in sweat and shame. Seeking refuge at the mural with a blanket thrown over herself like a cloak, she cried and cried remembering the vision of her own slick and dripping guts, drawn out of her body. This recurring nightmare is so exhausting; each time it wakes her she feels years older and so much closer to despair.

She doesn't tell Edward how she clung to the familiar rough wall and bawled her eyes out in self pity, until she heard the unexpected music filter through her misery. She listened for what seemed like hours, hunched into the emerald patina on the bricks as the unknown musician practiced and played. She imagined the pianist hunched over his instrument, a shadowy figure etched in candlelight and the halo of unearthly beauty. As ridiculous as this visual is, it suited the mournful music somehow. No, she certainly doesn't tell Edward about these moments of weakness, for fear that he might stumble on _Marie_. It's bad enough that she herself keeps stumbling on her inside her own head.

And so, they keep talking, feeling around each others boundaries like wrestlers looking for a hold.

They talk about books and music, and his passion is right there on the surface, bleeding through the skin as though she has scratched into it and set it free.

He plays music he says, several instruments, and it's this moment that changes her fatalism into a glimmer of hope, because the coincidence is too much. Sitting there across from him, and watching his slightly calloused fingers dance on the tabletop as they play some unknown melody heard only in his head, she joins the dots and wonders if it might have been Edward's playing she had been listening to.

This can't be a fluke. It can't be chance that his music, that _he_ is the one to have helped her through the darkness of last night's despair.

Imagining that it's him, thinking of him like this is so exciting, like she might even get to know this facet of his life one day. Maybe hear firsthand the music he plays.

Then, it dawns on her; he must live very close for this to make sense.

"Do you live in an apartment, or... a house?"

"It's a warehouse actually. It's been converted to an apartment, just up the road from here. It's nothing flash though, a bit basic actually. How about you?"

"I'm in an apartment the next street over," her mouth somehow conjures up innocent words in answer, while her brain runs away on an incredible tangent.

Bella's mind conjures up an unexpected image. Like a tall, red tulip, the image blossoms, until she can practically see Edward sitting at his piano, on the other side of her very own emerald mural.

It's not possible. Is it?_ Is it?_

She says nothing, hoping that it might be true, wishing for this so hard, to strengthen their connection. It would be incredible if it's true. Would it be stalkerish to mention this right now? What would he think? And then, at the last: _Did he hear me crying? _If she confesses her light bulb moment now, will he realize it was her?

Instead of infecting him with her poison, Bella lets his electric presence zap the cobwebs off of her. She wants to crawl across that table and pour herself into his lap. There have been moments over these past days that are almost overwhelming in their ferocity; moments of acute passion within her. The realization that he has been present in her life without either of them knowing makes the feelings undeniably stronger. She doesn't know what to make of them, and doesn't want to fool herself into hoping that her feelings might be legitimate, or worse still, to vainly hope that they might be reciprocated. A crushing blow of those proportions would level her landscape.

From speakers mounted behind the counter, Thom Yorke chants _...of all these weird creatures who lock up their spirits, drill holes in themselves and live for their secrets..._

She looks up from her mug, equal measures of happiness and incredulity at being here with him radiating out to anyone who cares to look. Bella wants to, _craves to,_ latch onto him like a limpet and whisper all her fears into his lovely mouth while he gathers her close and holds her there hard.

A tiny fly settles briefly on his shoulder, and she wants to be that fly so that her prying, weightless little feet could touch him in six places at once. The very air from her lungs gets closer to him than she's able to be, and she's violently jealous of the breathy expulsions. Here, in this presence that burns away her free will, Bella could almost forget dead little Mike and the defaced car, the dread and growing unease, the foreboding creeping up her spine. She could almost forget the stranger at her window. _Almost_.

She watches that little fly through the green veil of her envy as it makes its way along Edward's shoulder and to his neck. It rubs its front legs together and stares back at her.

Bella's eyes glide over Edward's shoulder, over the seam of his sweatshirt and to the pale skin of his throat. She watches his Adam's apple move as he speaks, his fingers tapping on the table along with the music. It's at this precise moment that a movement in the distance behind him attracts her eye and her pretty, natural smile becomes a frozen grimace.

Across the road from the cafe, a familiar figure gathers speed, running along the street and out of sight. Unpleasant heat settles in Bella's gut, bitter and sharp like the first pangs of food poisoning. She removes her hands from the table and sits up stiffly in the booth. The implications are undeniable, though the truth of it won't hit her until later.

She's being stalked, and has been for a while, by someone who knows her. There is something so familiar about the person whom she saw running just now, though she only saw them momentarily and not at all clearly. It can't be a coincidence. All the little things that she has been ignoring rush back to her in a sickening montage and she wants to slap herself with how stupid she has been.

..._for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself..._sings Thom, oblivious to her inner turmoil.

Edward has noticed her changed expression and is looking at her quizzically. Immediately, Bella swallows her shock and irons her face into a neutral mask.

"Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost." His fingers have ceased tapping.

"Yeah. I mean, I'm alright." Bella's voice is not her own.

She swallows hard and scrambles for something, anything, to say. The foreboding warnings that have been whispering and muttering in her head for weeks are now trumpeting like a foghorn. This can't be a coincidence. Bella is wondering how her stomach can drop sickeningly while bile rises in her throat at the same time. One would think these two events were mutually exclusive.

And just like that, the spell she's been under- the illusion of normalcy- pops with a flourish worthy of David Copperfield. _Surprise! You're an idiot! You thought you could be two people? That he would never know? Stupid, stupid, stupid. _She realizes that deep inside, she harbored hopes of keeping him somehow, and that she never can because Marie can't be separated from her; she _is_ _Marie_. And Marie's life has come looking for her in the guise of her stalker.

She thought she could keep a lid on it, and maybe she could. But this person whom she didn't even have time to see properly or recognize, their actions are beyond her control. If he has been in her apartment, then he might have vandalized her car, he might have killed Mike. If he has done all those things, then he is dangerous. She could never risk exposing Edward to this danger. She must handle it by removing herself.

Embarrassment creeps up her face in a bright red flush, a heated mantle. She should have known better than to get to this point. Bella looks at Edward's face, eyes frantically sliding over him, memorizing, as though she hasn't done this a hundred times already. This time is different because it's the last time. She knows her expression is one of regret and pain, but she can't help it. It was one thing when she was obsessing over an ideal, but another thing entirely now that she has allowed herself to crave the real thing. Bella can't pretend this is within her control anymore, if it ever was. She has allowed herself to start falling in love with a normal person, and one who doesn't know what she is, at that. Edward has no place in her life. She can't bear to expose him to its ugliness. And now this danger... no.

Bella knows she should never have gotten this close. It's only going to hurt more now, when she has to let him go for good.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Edward notices that Bella has suddenly become very preoccupied. It would be totally conspicuous if he were to turn around right now and look for the reason she stares over his shoulder, so he stays as he is, dying of curiosity. Bella's eyes have gone suddenly blank and it's making him nervous, especially in light of what he wanted to say to her today.

The last couple of days have been a stretch for him, an exercise in virtuous patience. The longer he knows her, the less he seems to know _about_ her. When he asks a question that she deems too personal, she clams up and deflects him. It's meant to deter him, but in fact, it's having the reverse effect. He's never wanted anything in his life the way he wants to know Bella. She's infuriating and fascinating, continually slipping through his fingers like a foggy spectre.

Her hair is in a ponytail today, high on her head. It hangs down her back, though a thick dark lock has found its way under the neck of her tee. It disappears underneath her top. He finds himself following it over her ear and down into her tee with his eyes. Up and down. Up and down again. She's an enigma, this girl, refined and manicured on one hand, plain little girl lost on the other. He likes both when they wear her face. She still makes an impact on him, the same way she did when he first saw her, looking so lost and young.

Each time he looks at her, he notices something new, something that was there before but he hadn't paid it enough attention. Dark eyes were always there but now he notices how each black lash curls perfectly upward. Pale skin was always there but now his artist's eye watches the play of shadows and light upon it with fascination and draws the shapes of her bone structure beneath it. She really is beautiful, though she doesn't seem to be aware of it on the same level as other pretty girls. Edward looks at that lock of hair as it disappears beneath Bella's collar and thinks, not for the first time, about the shapes of her body underneath her clothes.

"So listen, I was wondering," he pauses, trying to find the right words. "Would you like to go out sometime? Somewhere other than here?" He's surprised to realize that he's quite nervous about her response.

Apparently, he's right to be.

She smiles, but it's sad. The way she's looking at him is like somebody died and she didn't get to say goodbye. It's not a nice feeling to know what she's about to say before the words ever leave her mouth. Her eyes drop to the table, to his tapping, fidgeting hands. He stills them somehow, frozen under her gaze, waiting for the rejection. When it comes, she makes it easy, and he's grateful for that, at least.

"Maybe some other time," she says, and the words are so quiet that he can barely hear her.

Edward feels like a tool, obviously having misread some of the vibes she's been sending. Either that or she'd be cheating on someone to go out with him. He's not sure because she's been so closed, but his stomach sinks at the thought. He's spent hours in her company but he still knows next to nothing about her. It seems now that this is how it's gonna stay.

Edward's watching her breathe, and it's all he's gonna get, just this moment. Because no sooner than he thinks it, she braces her hands on the table between them and starts to rise, sliding her slim body out of the booth. She drags her fingers along the table and he watches them drop off the edge like gravity wants them. Whatever he imagined might happen when he asked her, it isn't this.

He can't find words as he watches her walk away, silent and dark. She doesn't even look up when she walks past the window, though his eyes must be burning green fire into her.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Tears in her eyes now, Bella walks quickly back to her apartment. The Damocles Sword she has dreaded for weeks is finally on the descent, aimed squarely at the base of her neck. She can almost feel the sliced air shifting as it comes for her like a gleaming silver blade from above.

Looking over her shoulder at every turn, she makes it back with no sighting of the creeper. Before she's even in the door, she starts to plan ahead, knowing that there's no way she can take any of her stuff. It's all just going to stay behind until she can send some movers to get it. She will pack a few necessities into her overnight bag and hightail it out of there.

It's time to fly.

Bella's good at flying.

She slams into her door with her key in the lock, and for the first time, it gives with no trouble. She almost ends up on her ass in the hallway, then scrambles and slams it shut behind her, stumbling into the bedroom. The overnight bag is still under her bed where she discarded it the day she moved in. She moves quickly, throwing necessities on the bed to pack.

And then stops, frozen to the floor, with her hair standing on end, while her tall black boots mock her from their unexpected vantage beside the bed.

Now, there can be no doubt. The Sword has descended.

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**A/N: **In case there is anyone wanting reassurance before continuing with this story, please note that this fanfiction does not deal with rape themes. I have not, nor will I ever, write rape scenes. There have also been a few questions about the length of this fanfiction, and to my mind, it's going to be approximately 20 chapters all up. I currently have the next three chapters prepared, and they will be posted every 10-14 days.

In future I would like to post a teaser of the upcoming chapter on the Twilighted thread. The link to the thread is on my profile if anybody is interested in having a look. Cheers!


	14. Perfect

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions. No rape._

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_**Warning: **__**This chapter features graphic **__**violence.**_

* * *

_Didn't leave them there._

_I didn't._

_I didn't._

_Did I?_

_I didn't._

Bella stands in the middle of the room, by her bed, and starts to hyperventilate. Panting breaths pierce the stillness as she begins to break apart inside. Her mind can't take in the implication of seeing those black boots out of their box, let alone standing there next to her bedside, mocking her with their inanimate vinyl bleakness.

She twists strands of hair around her fingers and tugs hard. Although the wind outside wasn't overly strong, her ponytail is coarse and knotty; the hair feels substantial coiled around her knuckles. It helps her concentrate. _Think._

She has only been out of the apartment for a few hours, and in that time, somebody has broken in, retrieved these boots from her wardrobe and strategically placed them there for her to find. She's frozen to the floor, but her hands aren't still; they're clenched into white-knuckled fists that mercilessly pound against her thighs.

She's so exposed, and the intruder could still be here, with her, in this very room. This information doesn't seem to fit inside her skull.

Fine hairs stand up on her arms as the adrenalin courses underneath her skin in rivulets, cold as steel. She's so tempted to look inside the closet that her hands literally itch. Only a few seconds have passed since she noticed the boots, and she is still rooted to the spot, unable to move. It's like every bad slasher movie she's ever seen and she knows better than to look for the knife-happy crazy-eyed maniac.

She finally comes to grips with the reality of her situation and very slowly inches backward on shaky legs, until her shoulders hit the wall. Edging out of the bedroom is excruciating, each shuffling step takes a decade to complete. Bella is feeling lightheaded from breathing too fast and digs her fingers into the door frame, lest she faint in the hallway.

The next minutes are like seconds blinking past at the speed of light, and suddenly she realizes that somehow she has inched her way through her entire apartment by sliding her back along the walls. There is nobody here except herself and the spectre of her stalker.

She's _sure _that there is one now, though her rational mind has attempted to talk itself out of believing that all the signs are connected. Seeing him today and coming home to this is all the proof required to finally understand the depth of the trouble that has found her this time.

Having completed a tense circuit of her apartment, she returns to the bedroom where the necessities she wants to pack lie strewn on her bed. Frantically, she throws them into her dusty overnight bag, not really noticing that there isn't enough to form a complete change of clothes.

She's throwing things in there indiscriminately, haphazardly, barely hanging on. Almost running, she heads to the bathroom to retrieve some toiletries and then she's back in the bedroom, unloading an armful of shit into her bag. She doesn't even know what she's managed to collect and in her rush, half of it doesn't make it into the bag, rolling off the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Inside the wardrobe, shoebox lids fly through the air as she desperately grabs wads of cash to take with her.

It's while she's kneeling on the floor in the wardrobe shoving money into her bag that she hears the noise. It's a soft pop.

The pop of her annoying, sticky front door.

Fear tastes like lead and feels scalding hot. Bella's skin breaks out in goosebumps; she can actually see the skin pop like a Mexican Wave across her arms. There is nowhere to hide.

She should be running but she's frozen to the floor. Making herself move, she creeps on tiptoes to the door, checks the hallway and finds it empty. Lungfuls of shallow breaths make her lightheaded, but her fear is making her bold.

She can only try for the kitchen in the hope of reaching her knife block. She dashes down the hallway and into the kitchen, which is thankfully empty.

She reaches the knife block and grabs the handle of the chopping knife, beginning to pull it out of its slot.

Unseen behind her, the open kitchen door begins to swing closed.

Its silent movement is marked only by the lengthening shadow and from behind the door, the emergence of a hand holding a small ornate box taken from her own mantle.

The blow, when it comes, doesn't hurt.

It's as though the back of her head has ceased to exist with one dull thump. Her hands flutter uselessly, but can't seem to make it to the back of her head, and flap ineffectually like spindly, broken baby bird wings.

Her knife clatters noisily to the wooden floor and out of her reach, joined by the keepsake box, now missing a foot and featuring a new dripping crimson stain.

She folds, boneless, to the ground.

It's a small distance but it takes years to get there, until she's finally, mercifully, lying on the floor of her apartment. It's a lovely place to be. It's peaceful down here.

The sound has been muted and she wonders who turned it down. There is still no pain, only the passage of time.

Shadows move and then there are feet. A knee cracks as it descends to rest on the floor, inches from her face.

Hair is softly brushed from her cheek by a cold hand.

The jean-clad knee lifts away and the feet step over her and out of view. She waits, suspended in time.

Dull, thudding footsteps resound around her head in slow motion.

Briefly, she wonders who it is. It seems like a small thing, but she'd like to confirm the identity of her attacker; to find out whose machinations are behind the state of emergency that her life has become, leading to this, her final moments.

When he finally steps out of the murky shadows her brain has conjured and his identity is confirmed, she almost breathes a sigh of relief. It's finally here: the moment of truth. She has no doubt that he's here to kill her. It's in the shape of his cruelty, the scent of his energy; it fills the room with a cloying unease. He couldn't hide this any more than he could hide a third leg. She can't imagine the effort it has taken to subjugate the killer in him for so long. Has it been his intention to do this all along, or did he just trip over this murderous defect recently? Has it been festering inside him forever? She will never know.

All she can do is look into his cold blue eyes, which have always pinned her like an insect to a card- the name she gave him is really so apt.

The glare of the Entomologist is quite lifeless, slithering over her face like a floating dead thing. There are no answers for her in those dead, cold eyes.

The dread is gone, and in its place, calm descends. She lies on the floor, unmoving, and takes in the form of her ending. Death is coming for her, and it's wearing his body as the implement of her demise.

He merely looks at her as she lies supine on the floor of her kitchen, unable to command her limbs or even so much as look away. In many ways, under the dread and searing fear, it's relief she feels, for her aimless flight coming to an end.

She swallows hard, noisily, and despairs that she's not in full command of herself. Drool is beginning to collect on the floor under her cheek, and she's powerless to stop it, or to move.

She can't seem to close her mouth, and one of her hands is trapped under her body, awkwardly and painfully stuck underneath her hip. This seems to be the only pain she can feel at the moment, another thing to be grateful for.

Her throat works at trying to clear saliva and she realizes that the hideous gagging sound is coming from her. She can't seem to stop making it.

The back of her head is beginning to ache, and the only thing she can focus on is those unwavering icepick eyes. Then, kneeling down fluidly next to her, he speaks, his voice like fingernails on a blackboard.

"I hope I haven't kept you waiting long."

The only response she is capable of is to blink, eyes rolling in an attempt to focus her blurred vision. Suddenly, the flare of agony spreads its tentacles, and it's entirely possible that her head wound is fast becoming the most painful thing she has ever experienced. Silent tears leak unchecked onto the tiles under her face as the tentacles squeeze mercilessly.

"Luckily, I already had everything packed into my car, so all I had to do was go downstairs and get it." He sounds almost jovial. Relieved that everything was so handy. His unwavering eyes raze over her face like a flash fire.

The enormity of his words doesn't escape her. This is part of his plan. This is how he wants her. Blunt, stumpy fingers advance on her face and although she can't move, inwardly she's scampering away from his touch.

For an insane moment she thinks he's going to poke her in the eye, but instead he reaches to the back of her head and presses into her wound.

She nearly faints with the horror as his fingers come back dripping with her lifeblood. It doesn't surprise her that he lifts them to his mouth and samples them as though it were a foreign delicacy. He smacks his thin lips together and grimaces.

"I keep thinking that it'll be different, but it's just as bad each time."

Oh my God. _Each time_. All she can do is blink away the leaking tears.

Turning away, he walks out of the room, but his voice still reaches her on the floor of the kitchen where she lies in agony, trying not to choke on her own spit. She can see the knife under her little table but can't seem to control her body in order to get closer to it. Her fingers just twitch and flex for it, hungrily but uselessly.

"For a minute there I thought maybe we'd have to change our plans, you know? When I saw you with that guy the last few times." His footsteps are getting closer again and then he walks past the doorway on the way to her bedroom. A clanging thump follows as he drops something on the floor there.

"I thought... maybe some family I didn't know about. But then I realized that as long as he wasn't staying here with you everything would be fine. I checked though, just in case, you know."

He returns to the kitchen and she almost swallows her tongue, shocked at how silently his feet suddenly appear in front of her face.

"Who is he, by the way?" Curious, quiet voice. Deceptively controlled. Deadly.

He lowers himself to his knee and peers into her face, his sharp pin eyes burning into her own. Even if she wanted to, she can't answer. Her throat is still working to clear itself and she's beginning to cough and splutter in desperation. It doesn't matter. She would rather slit her own throat than give Edward up to him. Somehow, she has drawn this berserker's attention onto herself; who knows what might have happened if she had continued to see Edward. The two of them might have ended up dead instead of just her.

Her heart constricts with pain just thinking about something happening to Edward.

Realizing that she isn't about to answer, he sighs. Opaque eyes gleam like blades in the knife drawer as he sits back on his haunches and considers her.

This is the most verbose and the most animated she has ever seen him. His mood is completely disconcerting. He's a completely different person from the grunting, monosyllabic creep she usually sees and she's suddenly so scared of what this could mean.

The things he's saying are bouncing off her like nonsense while she tries to make sense of what's happening. Inside, her sense of self preservation screams for her to _do more, try harder, reach further, get out, get out, GET OUT_... but there is nothing she can do. Her limbs are refusing to cooperate.

"Nothing to say? I suppose it doesn't matter." He wipes the blood from his fingers on her face, streaking it as though with warpaint, then stands and walks away.

More thumps on the floor of her bedroom. Crackling plastic.

"You've made a fucking mess in here. Going somewhere?"

Metallic clanging in her bedroom.

Tears, blood and spit mingling on the floor under her face in the kitchen.

"Didn't think so."

Abruptly he's back, and he's grabbing her by the ankles with his cold hands. She can't really struggle, his grip is hard and strong and her head is still fuzzy from the blow. Bella's arms are dragging behind her, and she stretches to look up to where her knife is wedged under a chair leg, but she still can't reach it, and now he's pulling her even further away from it.

All she can see is smears of her own blood that follow her dragging head as the Entomologist pulls her into her bedroom by her feet. The smears look pretty as her long ponytail weaves through them, curlicues and swirls of red over the light timber floor.

He's grunting, heaving with effort, and there is more emotion in those sounds than she has ever heard from him during sex. He manages to maneuver Bella into the bedroom, feet first, and she can finally see what's been keeping him busy in there.

Even from her limited vantage point on the floor, she can see the drop sheet spread out on her bed, clear plastic draping prettily from the edges.

Frantic now, she tries to kick her feet out from his grasp, but he just tightens his grip and looks down at her, smiling his creepy, toothsome grin, eyes glinting in the semi-dark.

He's turned her bedside lamp on and the room has a lovely ambiance, completely at odds with the implication of the drop sheet he has laid out on it.

Bella's hands flail desperately, looking for something, anything, to latch onto. She knows now with absolute certainty that if she makes it onto that drop sheet, she's dead.

There is a sudden jarring pain as he drops her feet to the floor and continues on around the bed, fiddling with something on top of the drop sheet. Her fingers still search the floor but she knows there is nothing there for her to find. She never unpacked all of her things, and the only things under the bed are cartons of books, for once completely useless to her. She could laugh at the stupid wads of money- all that saving and it's going to lie on the floor with her and watch her die. It sure as shit isn't coming with her.

His footsteps are heavy on her wooden floors as he prepares this elaborate scene. Bella might not know the details, but she's sure of the ending.

"So, I've given this a lot of thought," he says offhandedly as he makes his preparations, "And to be honest, I'm still not sure of the best way to go. I always like to make it special, you know? Every time is different and I want to get the best out of it. I never rush, it would be... disrespectful?" he says, ruminating, as though looking for the right word.

"We have a deal here after all, I need to make sure that I deliver." He looks around, appraising, and mutters under his breath.

"I'm fine-tuning this as I go, you know. I'm getting better each time."

He eyes her with disturbing deliberation, looking at her bloodied and limp on the floor, as though considering the mode of her demise.

Inside she's screaming _What the fuck are you talking about, you insane piece of shit! What deal? WHAT DEAL?_ She groans at the pain radiating from the open wound on the back of her head and realizes she has spoken those last words out loud.

His eyes reflect the scant light back to her in fragments, like broken mirrors.

"What deal? Why, you know the one, where I become the humble instrument of your salvation, and in return you become mine, if only for a glorious moment... Silly Marie. As if you didn't understand..." he sighs indulgently, then looks away into the courtyard through her half-open blinds.

"I like that you're keeping me on my toes though. The tests are always more rewarding."

When his head swivels back and his eyes pin her to the floor, she can see nothing in them at all. They're dead eyes, looking right through her. It's at that moment that she knows real fear.

There is nothing inside his eyes that she can appeal to. They're as black as a beetle's carapace, and just as hard.

When he comes for her, she musters every ounce of strength and will she has to scramble madly away, heels digging into the floor, arms flailing like a madwoman.

Nothing prepares her for how easily he lifts her from the floor, one hand around her throat and the other grasping a fistful of bloody, matted hair in an iron grip of stumpy fingers. The pain makes her yelp but his hand digs into her throat and smothers the sound before it can fly. He deposits her heavily on the bed, slamming her onto it bodily.

On her bedside, glinting like quartz in a cave: scalpels, knives and thin rope.

Bella's eyes are wild with fear as she takes all this in, her ribs are bursting with half-breaths stifled and screams interrupted. She kicks at him madly, wanting only some distance, something to hang onto, a way to brace herself and fight.

Her bedside lamp goes flying, catapulted from its place by their wrestling bodies, and smashes onto the floor beside the bed. Her thrashing foot connects with his shoulder, but he doesn't let up; he simply throws himself on top of her, smothering her with his whole body until she's so exhausted and in so much pain that she finally begins to still.

Bloodied hair adorns her throat in gory crimson strands and sticks to her skin in obscene clots.

Then, as she barely breathes, he confesses to her quietly, reverently.

"You were so perfect when I saw you, I just knew it had to be you," he whispers in her ear, his mouth so close that she can feel his moist breath on her throat between his splayed fingers. It's warm on her skin but so cold across the moisture of her tear-stained cheek.

"Just the right kind of despair. So sad, so lovely."

Bella is so weakened that she can't even protest when he gathers her hands together underneath her back. He sits astride her torso and reaches for a cable tie, fastening it around both wrists, almost tightly enough to draw blood. Her own body weight, combined with his, soon make her arms tingle numbly.

"Still, the question remains... how?" The Entomologist sits up astride her chest. The weight of him is like an anchor tied around her lungs, sinking her into the abyss. She can barely stay lucid between forced, painful half-breaths that manage to whistle through her constricted chest. He taps his chin deliberately with a finger and considers, his opaque eyes boring through her.

"I mean, I've got some ideas... always got ideas." Stumpy fingers sit ever so lightly on the side of her face, caressing her like those of a lover. It's such a confusing contradiction to the menacing weight of him forcibly holding her down, but she can't recoil, can't even move. With her restrained arms, his weight sandwiching her to the bed and her throbbing, groggy head unable to focus, Bella is completely at his mercy.

The cable tie eats into her wrists like a steel trap, sawing at her. "I got the book you left out for me, so I know what you want me to do afterwards, but I guess I just gotta figure out how to get us there..."

The tears that flow freely now make new paths on her face, sliding off into her lovely, long, dark hair. It's almost black where they soak in. She has no idea what he's talking about.

He looks her over, eyes sliding over blood-slicked skin, loving the red on white, until they rest on the tendrils spreading out from the cinch of her ponytail. Her hair is painting the sheer plastic sheet with blood, whorls and spirals of organic crimson on shiny synthetic.

Her hair.

He has always liked her hair.

The Entomologist's eyes are sharpened shards of onyx as he brushes stray wisps from her face, then releases her ponytail from the elastic that binds it and gathers it in his hands like hunks of flax on either side.

His lip rises and he bares his white teeth in a grimace that Bella can barely see through the haze over her eyes, but which she can feel as strongly as if those teeth were embedded deep in her throat.

"Oh Marie... I think I've got just the thing..." he trails off murmuring under his breath, and continues to gather her hair in his hands, pulling his fingers through it, working the knots out.

His hands are dyed scarlet with her bright blood as he plunges them into her hair, again and again. She watches them rising and lowering again, her scalp burning as he yanks and pulls, maneuvering her head sideways so he can begin to construct a clumsy, crude braid. The kind she always wears for their 'dates'.

The tip of his tongue protrudes from the corner of his mouth as he concentrates, and she's frantic, desperately trying to shake off the foggy miasma brought on by that one solid blow.

The back of her head feels like it's being dipped in hot ashes, and it's heavy... so fucking heavy. If Bella can't snap out of this and fight, she knows it's over. He seems to be spiralling toward a crescendo, his voice begins to dip gruffly as he mutters nonsense, eyes piercing into her body like sharpened sticks. Somehow, she understands in her gut that he's beginning the countdown to the end.

Her end.

Her lip quivers but she steels herself and takes a deep breath. Suddenly shrieking, Bella begins to buck under him, violently throwing her whole body to try to dislodge him.

She jerks against his bulk, pushing off from the bed using her bound arms like a brace but he's deceptively solid, a dead weight on her torso. He's absorbing her force and riding over her with it, an indulgent smirk on his face as he braids her hair.

One more time she tries, frenzied jerking gaining momentum as adrenalin pumps through her veins, lending her strength. He clucks in annoyance, lets go of her hair and with one big swing, he punches her in the face with the force of his whole body behind his fist.

The crack of her eye socket fracturing is like celery snapping inside her skull, and the pain is absolutely astonishing.

"Hush now," he whispers as Bella's eyes roll back in her head. She slackens, lying limply now, spent and listless. Every movement brings pain. She stills.

"That's better."

The Entomologist's weight disappears off her but Bella can hardly be grateful for the relief- she's barely conscious and no longer fighting.

She can feel her boots being pulled onto her legs, and is absurdly happy that they're giving him trouble as he tries to push them up her calves. A few curses later, he gets back on the bed and sits on her again, this time pulling the boots on. They go on squeaky and cold, and she lets her mind drift, wanting so much to be anywhere but here with the pain of her broken face and the blood caked in her hair, a gory and broken Cinderella.

Outside, she can barely open her eyes, but inside it's incredible how much more she can suddenly recall, stuck in her head this way.

What's outside is no longer important because inside her head, she's delighted to suddenly remember that Charlie has a moustache.

It tickles Bella's face and she giggles as she scrambles onto his shoulders in their sunlit backyard on a fragrant spring day. Charlie's large hand holds her steady there, and nothing can hurt her up here, so close to the sun and yet with the earth firmly beneath her feet. Inside the front pocket of her denim coveralls, a tiny seashell and a perfectly round white pebble clink against each other._ It's time to get new sneakers soon, Bells, these are getting tight! _

Charlie's hands are so strong and large, and he's holding her to him firmly until it's too much, and she's squirming in his grasp, but Charlie doesn't let go. He has her by the hair and he's pulling on it uncomfortably, harshly, and... _no Daddy, not so hard, it hurts!_

Suddenly, it's not Charlie, it's the Entomologist, and she's back to reality with a thud and unable to hide from him, unable to recede back into her head. He's astride her chest again but there is incredible, breathtaking pressure around her throat that she can't understand.

Her mind can't grasp the meaning of it because she can see both of his hands, and they're not around her throat. It's like a viper has encircled her neck, tightening, constricting, and she can't breathe, can't even swallow, can't think at all.

She looks at him, confused, and sees that his hands are still full of her hair, of the rough and straggly braid he has created. He's pulling that braid real hard, his one wiry muscled arm braced against her chest, and that's when she realizes that he has wrapped her braid around her throat, then threaded it under itself like a garrote. She's choking and spluttering, and he's tightening her own hair around her throat like a noose while her eyes water and lips turn purple and numb.

The pressure is so high that her eyeballs feel suddenly too big for her head and it's rising, rising until she can see stars; hell, whole constellations of stars.

The throttling, asphyxiating pressure pulls her up to a place where there is only the iridescent light bursting beneath her eyelids and then _oh yes Daddy, yeah yeah yeah higher higher, push my swing higher! Daddy's hands are touching down on her back each time she returns to him on the pendulum, and he's laughing at her whole face smile, his eyes crinkling in the sunshine, happy and beautiful, full of the sun, and look! Daddy's eyes are brown just like mine._

The pain recedes to a corner of her consciousness, and there she's untouchable. She pushes the pain into a suitcase. She sits on that suitcase_ and waits until they come and get her, with Mister Biscuits, the stuffed monkey, and her good shoes on, because it's important to make a good impression, even at the orphanage. They're the same shoes she wore when they put Daddy in a box in the ground and Sue Clearwater let her pick lavender from her garden to put on top of the box so Daddy could have a nice smell with him in heaven._

_Mister Biscuits looks at her with his black button eyes and then he smiles, and through his razor sharp teeth he says Oh Marie you're almost perfect I knew it had to be you … don't worry I'll look after you when you're perfect I won't even cut you up so you can be perfect not like the last one I thought she would be perfect but in the end she was just another dead whore … I'll just maybe take your legs with those boots on Marie maybe I'll just take your legs right along with them so I don't have to stuff them with newspaper … I thought maybe I would take the mask or something nice from your jewellery box but now I think those boots Marie because they'll remind me of when you were perfect and still and mine and I've always liked your legs Marie … _

… _I know you're close and I can't wait I can't FUCKING WAIT till you're still and perfect and I can be a little bit closer to perfect... Then the razor sharp teeth turn into tombstones at the place where Daddy is lying so still in his new box with his uniform on and … won't he get uncomfortable in there? And even though he doesn't smell right she still loves him and everyone's eyes are so sad, but don't be sad, I think I'm finally going to see my Daddy again today!_

Bella smiles even as the capillaries in her cheeks begin to pop and her left eye fills with blood from the unrelenting pressure of the garrote, with the Entomologist sitting like an obscene incubus on her chest.

He grins his best smile, the one that makes him look like a little boy playing with his favorite thing in the whole world, even as his dick hardens painfully in his pants.

It was never ever about the fucking, it was always about this: the moment where he owns her life and death and it sits perfectly balanced in the palm of his hand like a feather on the scales of Maat.

He has plotted and waited for months for this moment, priming, crippling her with fear and doubt and it's everything he hoped it would be; the thrill is indescribable. So much beauty, and it's his to control. His chest is exploding like the Big Bang, because here, he is the master of creation. He looks over Bella's purple, gasping face lovingly, happily, with the widest smile a deranged mind can give when looking at what it has proudly manufactured.

Inside Bella's head there is the sound of glass breaking. GLASS BREAKING?

… _or is that Grandma Marie's good vase, the one Grandpa gave her years ago … and Mommy why are you and Daddy fighting … and little brown monkey with a pretty red bow around his neck because red means Christmas and thank you Mommy and I'll call him Mister Biscuits … and Mommy why do you have a belt around your arm and Mommy why are you sticking yourself with that needle doesn't it hurt? … and Daddy where has Mommy gone and Daddy's gone sweetheart we're so sorry baby and here are your new family there is Mary-Alice and she's going to be your new sister aren't you pleased sweetheart ... _

… _and I'll do anything for you because you're my sister and even this, even this I'll do for you even though it tastes funny and it will only hurt for a moment and don't take my Sparky away because we promised to stick together we promised and now you're making me break my promise and nameless faces and cars and a kick in the stomach you're a filthy fucking W H O R E and the full moon is beautiful and here this will help you calm down stop fighting once you stop puking you're gonna love it and it's really gonna help you relax and get that fucking needle out of me and lights flashing above like the landing lights of a passing plane and we're not sure how much she's had and then Edward effortlessly throwing his leg over the seat of his bike and he's like a shining beacon_ …

And then for the first time she feels regret because even though she's about to leave all this behind, she'll never know anything more about him or experience his smile again.

The images start to come so thick and fast that her mind can't separate them anymore. She welcomes them all even as the pressure on her corporeal self lessens because her killer doesn't exist here, wherever _this_ is that they're showing a movie of her entire life.

Bella has a front row seat, and it takes milliseconds (or it could be eons) to get to the end where there are bright stars in the firmament above.

There is no pain, only the tunnel that she's speeding down and she almost wants to scream with the absurdity of actually seeing this for herself. She giggles in delight but there is no sound.

There is only freedom.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you very much for reading.


	15. Gothic

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions. No rape._

* * *

_**Warning: **__**This chapter features graphic **__**violence.**_

* * *

Edward looks off into space and wonders how it all went so wrong so quickly. He knows he's awkward with people, but he really thought Bella would be receptive to the idea of moving their fledgling friendship up a notch.

He's not blind; he could see the way she'd been looking at him- he was sure she was attracted too. He caught her looking his way a few times only to have her pretend that her eyes were on their way to somewhere else, sliding away furtively.

They'd been meeting here for a couple of days now, and he thought they'd moved past the worst of the uncomfortable silences and stolen glances, though the loaded air they've both been breathing had been heavy and buzzing like static.

They're not kids, and yet she couldn't hold his gaze.

_Surely I haven't misread her?_

He definitely hadn't misread the tension between them.

The way she stills his ever-fidgeting hands just with a look, the way he wants to crawl inside her head and delight in every thought; that kind of attraction couldn't be one-sided; it's incendiary, potentially explosive. His nerve endings tingle with it when in proximity to her. And yet, she walks away.

He sits in the booth as the day ends, rubbing his thumb absently over a callused finger pad, staring off into the late afternoon void. Around him, Rosalie and Ness are tidying the place up and preparing to close, and he feels their eyes sliding over him, probably with pity. He hates it, hates people feeling sorry for him. It's been a long time since rejection stung this much.

He hadn't even realized when, but at some point he'd stopped thinking of Bella as a fascinating stranger.

In fact, he had started to look forward to the way her warm breath might feel whispering her secrets against his cheek. He'd already begun to wonder about the texture of that glorious, glossy hair and how it might feel sifting through his fingers.

He had even begun to draw the shape of her mouth with his eyes, over and over until he had memorized the convex, the concave and the lush, pink coral in between.

It's been a long time since someone piqued his interest in this manner, and he didn't realize just how much it meant to him until Bella burned him.

He was confused and embarrassed as he watched her leaving, a world of regret in her dark eyes, even though she had nothing to be sorry for. Edward was the one who made a fool of himself, reading more into their budding friendship than was apparently there. He thought they'd made a connection.

To anyone who saw him walking home afterward, Edward might have looked like the weight of the world sat perched on his shoulders, or perhaps that an invisible iron anchor dragged behind him on the pavement, its chain clanging and screeching in protest.

He wishes he could straighten up and hide his disappointment, but it pulls at him, bowing him over until he finally makes it home to the warehouse, feeling like half a man. Closing the door behind him, he caresses the handlebars of the Triumph, contemplating a ride to clear his head, but evening is already upon him, and as the skies darken, he thinks he smells more rain coming.

With a sigh, his hand drops back to his side. Edward makes his way over to the old bookshelf that houses all his music and rifles through CDs, hoping to stumble onto something that reflects how he's feeling right now. Fingers flick case after case but nothing jumps out at him. He snorts under his breath, marvelling at the universe's method in this madness; not even music understands him today.

Stretching tall and lean, he scrubs his face and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. Instead of out, he will go up. He'll climb the cedar until the rain comes and forces him down again.

The moment he makes his decision, his weight is lighter. A purpose gives him respite from feeling the worst of Bella's rejection. He begins the climb with the same relish he always feels when he is about to be delivered outside his own head and into the vastness of the world. At times, he wonders whether he should remove himself to a cabin in the wilderness and live the life of a hermit. Still, even as he climbs now, he can't stop his mind from churning entirely.

Might the fascinating veiled woman be unmasked tonight? It's so tempting to spy on her. Edward is compelled to look. Since he saw her here that night, he has briefly contemplated camping out in this tree so as to look through her window, though realistically, whatever her reason for dressing up that way, it was probably an isolated incident. He would be lying to himself if he pretended he wasn't drawn to do it, but his fascination with the real-life Bella has precluded his curiosity about his fantasy neighbor.

He can't not look now that he's here, ensconced in the tree, with the smell of the cedar strong in his nose and the feel of its bark pleasantly rough and earthy and real under his fingertips.

Climbing lightly, his old agility rediscovered, Edward advances branch by gnarly branch into the canopy above. Rain begins to drizzle down, misting drops reaching him through the dense cover, a wet sheen soon forming over his cheeks and hands. The cedar is suddenly more slippery than he would like and he has to be more careful than usual. The fresh, cold air is invigorating, kick-starting his senses.

He's still stinging over Bella's rejection, and though the rain has started earlier than he expected, he doesn't want to come down just yet.

He doesn't fight his urge to take another look at his neighbor as night falls around him. It's morally wrong, he knows that. He's spying on someone, prying stealthily into her life without her knowledge.

To him, it doesn't seem like a big problem; he knows he doesn't mean any harm by it. Still, if he were found up here by a cop, the consequences would not be pretty. It's not until he hears the sounds of something breaking inside the apartment that he really questions the validity of indulging his curiosity this way. He's about to wilfully become a Peeping Tom.

_Just a glance then_, since he's already here.

Quietly, carefully, he braces himself until he can stretch around and look into her apartment, where he's confronted by a dim bedroom, the darkness of evening already laying claim to the barely-lit details. Remaining light of the fleeting day shows him the essentials though; there are two people on that bed.

Embarrassed by this unexpected view into an intimate encounter, he quickly looks away, almost losing his grip on the twisted, knobbly branch in his hurry to remove himself from the scene.

Leaning back against the tree to right himself and preparing to climb down, he can still see the image in his head though he squints his eyes against it. It's only then that he realizes that something is wrong with the picture, though he doesn't immediately grasp what it is.

_Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_ goes his mind, back and forth like a metronome, until he has it.

_Was that a plastic sheet beneath their bodies?_

Good God.

Edward's eyes snap open and he's already moving, climbing up a little higher and craning his neck to get a good look inside that room to confirm what his gut already knows but his eyes have to see for themselves in order to believe.

In the bedroom, a woman lies slack on the bed, and where Edward thought he witnessed a scene of love, one of horror unveils itself to him instead, piece by agonizing piece.

Her legs are driftwood, limp on the bed. The thick plastic sheet beneath her wrinkles and gathers in stiff folds that radiate like rays of the sun.

Above her, a man roosts over her torso. He hasn't moved much since Edward's last glimpse moments ago, except to lean lower over her face. Now that he's looking, _really _looking, Edward can see that what he initially thought were hands lovingly caressing her face are really exerting some sort of violent hold over her. Suddenly he sees the veined forearms flexed, pulling and bracing hard.

_This can't be real. It's like some sick movie. They're role-playing... aren't they?_

Stunned into immobility, Edward sits perched in the tree until he registers the darkening blood-red smears on the floor, which his mind is telling him are not just the color of blood.

They're blood.

Her blood.

As Edward processes this, the monster perched on her chest throws back his head and whoops the laugh of a delighted child, his neck corded and eyes squeezed shut.

Unthinkingly, Edward launches himself into the barely lit macabre, that square of dim light where a girl is losing her battle. His action is so impulsive and unpremeditated that he doesn't even realize what he's doing until his feet brace against the branch and push, catapulting him bodily through the glass.

It disintegrates on impact, sending razor-sharp shards into the room with him like an iridescent halo of serrated death. They fall like rain from the sky onto everything, showering the stunned attacker and abruptly ending his happy guffaws. He has no time to do anything but fall silent as Edward's bulk crashes through the window, accompanied by the glass and the night as a witness.

As he falls heavily to the floor, Edward tries to roll and lessen the impact, but he hasn't judged his entry and lands awkwardly, knocking all the air from his lungs. He lies at the foot of a bed in this twilit room, among glass and money scattered all over the floor... _Money?_

Not a moment has passed since he landed here and he scrambles to rise, working on pure adrenalin now, legs kicking against the slippery floor even as he hears the crackling of plastic above. Edward's lungs don't seem to be working properly as he tries to suck air past the painful crush in his chest, his head completely empty of thoughts and his body moving totally on instinct.

No sooner does he manage to get his legs under him than a punch to the face has him back on the floor, gasping in pain.

"I knew you were gonna be trouble, runt," whispers the voice of a demon, into Edward's ear.

To Edward, the sound is like a lightning bolt that clears away the fog, and he's suddenly in motion, lashing out at the source of the voice, one hand grasping a handful of clothing while the other, now a clenched fist, connects soundly with something that yields and yelps in pain.

Blindly, frantically, he punches and kicks at the attacker, with no clue where his blows land or if they're effective, delivered awkwardly from the floor.

"You don't know how much fucking trouble," Edward spits out, though he has no idea what he's saying, the words just form themselves from fear and shock at the horror he has stumbled into.

Somehow he's finally able to get his legs under him and throws himself up and pushes away from the attacker, his back slamming hard against the wall. Edward's breath comes hard and fast as he surveys the room, trying to understand what's just happened, and what the hell he's looking at. It just doesn't compute. His brain has left the building.

In front of him stands a gasping man, dirty blond hair slicked back from his face. He's physically unimpressive but seems oddly composed, and Edward's survival instinct is screaming at him to watch out, to not underestimate this seemingly lesser opponent. The man is a loaded, unpredictable spring.

A muffled voice reaches them from somewhere, and both of them react with surprise, eyes widening, ears perked.

"Hello? Are you alright?" A tentative knock sounds on a door somewhere, but there is no sense of relief for Edward, trapped in this room with a bloodied, frenzied man who's sizing him up like a carnivore does his prey.

Behind him, the ruined window looks like a gaping black mouth, pointy slices of glass sticking out of the frame all around it like sharp teeth. On the bed to his right lies Bella, _Oh My God, it's BELLA!_ … Her own fine, glossy hair wrapped and tied around her throat like a messy, plaited noose.

Her face is grotesquely adorned with smears of blood from nose to ear like it's the Wild West and she's on the warpath, except that Edward knows she's not the one waging this war. Those pink coral lips he had started to fantasize about are grey and still and closed lids hide her lovely deep eyes, lashes casting deathly shadows over skin so pale that it looks devoid of blood.

She lies still and small on the bed and his chest implodes when he realizes that it really is her, he hasn't leapt into some strange, elaborate set-up. It's really Bella, and he might be too late to help her; she doesn't seem to be breathing.

"What have you done? What the fuck have you done!" He breathes painfully, disbelieving.

All this he sees in the blink of an eye, knowing that there's no time to help her right now; first he must deal with the piece of shit that worked her over so she lies lifeless and bloody on a plastic sheet. Suddenly, he's angrier than he's ever been in his life. Edward's blood boils in his veins and he rages,_ rages_ at the knowledge that he might be too late. _Too late for her._

He stands with his shoulders braced against the wall behind him and faces her attacker. They eye each other warily now. Edward stands tall and lean with his teeth clenched so hard that they could break like glass, full of grief and loss, his body heaving with adrenalin and shock.

His opponent sizes him up with cold fish eyes, dispassionate but focused eyes- the total opposite of Edward's, which wear emotion so clearly for anyone to see. Even he himself can feel the desperation in his eyes, even as the tentative knocking sounds again somewhere a million miles away.

It's been years since he's had to be physically aggressive for any reason, and he's suddenly unsure. It's laughable; really, since he's just leaped from a tree into someone else's house and broken in through their window, very physical acts requiring fitness and bravery.

He feels neither strong nor brave, but he knows without a doubt that there is no time to work up to being either. _The time is now._

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

_Should have taken care of him days ago._

The self-appointed Nephilim appraises Edward with a calculating stare, though beneath it all he's balanced on the edge of control, too. This was not meant to happen- this intrusion has completely ruined the moment. Marie was perfect only for fleeting seconds, and he missed the crescendo of the wave he'd been riding for months with her. He feels completely sidelined; all his painstaking work destroyed.

Moments earlier he watched, enraptured as she thrashed beneath him, thinking only about how absolutely right he'd been to follow his instinct about the method he chose to dispatch her. He's used many implements in the past but there was nothing special enough for her until his restless eyes settled on her bloody, matted hair.

He was overjoyed to be so suddenly struck by inspiration- no wonder that nothing he'd brought with him was quite right for the job. She provided the instrument of her own demise; a weapon he himself had handled many times without realizing its significance. It looked just right, coiled around her throat like thick rope as she fought, so perfect.

She was becoming perfect, but now, it's over too soon.

She's gone and he can't get her back, though he would if he could, just to revel in seeing her expel that final breath and relish his part in Marie achieving her perfection.

How is it possible that this guy, _this kid_, has managed to completely ruin his most careful and inspired work? It's infuriating.

He appears calm on the outside, but behind his cold reptilian eyes burn the flames of raging, furious, crimson hatred.

He straightens up and faces the cause of his arrested ecstasy, listening to the ghosts in the machine whispering their savage fury at this inconceivable interruption. They hiss and mumble in his head constantly.

There is no contingency for this situation.

He has worked for years and yet has never been in this position before. He chooses his targets very carefully- the girls have no family to search for them, nobody to miss them. He watches for weeks just to make sure.

From the moment that he begins preparing them to meet their shared deadline, he works hard to ensure the outcome that has been thwarted here. He has never before failed, nor been intercepted, while realizing his potential through helping them find their perfect state. His ghosts mumble and buzz angrily at him; _Incompetent! Inept!_ He sizes up the kid and gives him his best worst sneer.

One thing is clear. He can't allow this kid to walk out of here. He only hopes that the trunk of his car is big enough to fit two carcasses instead of the usual one. Nothing must get in the way of his divine collection.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Edward clenches his fists and squares up. Mere seconds have passed since he exploded through the window and into a nightmare.

He watches his opponent carefully as the precious seconds tick by, finally noticing details that had previously eluded him due to his rather dramatic entry and rough landing. The glossy smears on the floor are indeed crimson-black blood, the hue particularly fresh and bright spotted over the paper money littering the place, there must be thousands of dollars scattered all over the floor.

Then, he notices the implements: knives, rope, there is even a saw. They lie scattered on the bedside table and on the floor, near the remains of a lamp- this must be the cause of the sound of breaking he heard earlier, and with a shuddering slap of reality, he realizes that she fought this guy.

Bella was fighting for her life while he sat in a tree, absorbed in his own thoughts and wasting precious time. Guilt and nausea at the sight of these instruments of pain makes him weak at the knees and it takes everything he's got not to go to her right this second and shake her and beg for her to be alive.

As though reading Edward's thoughts, Bella's attacker forces their next move. Those colorless eyes flick to Bella, and Edward can't help it, his own eyes follow to her frail stillness even as he realizes that this is a ruse.

The moment Edward breaks eye contact, there's a whir of movement and the intruder springs forward lithely. Like a lion onto a gazelle, he attaches himself to Edward's body with claws and teeth exposed in a feral sneer.

They hit the wall with a massively loud thud and Edward feels the plaster give a little under their combined weight just as, unbelievably, he feels teeth sinking into his neck.

The sharp pain is so unexpected and bizarre that he's at a loss for a split second, flailing wildly against this_ thing_ attaching itself to him in a demonic grip, this animal trying to rip his throat out. It's at this moment that Edward realizes he's not up against a dangerous man; he's facing a furious, white-hot insanity, a psychotic aberration.

They fall to the floor in a tangle of legs, wrestling, grappling in desperation, each attempting to subdue the other. Edward's rage and grief make him equal to the other's demented primal fury, but his mind is no match for the no-holds-barred rage of a deranged psychopath. He doesn't see it coming until it's too late, doesn't see the glint of jagged glass until it is irrevocably on its way deep into his left forearm.

The pain is so exquisitely shocking that Edward just sucks in a soundless scream, recoiling from it instinctively, even as the intruder releases his neck from between bloodied teeth and shows him a distorted, menacing grimace.

Clutching the glass shard buried in Edward's arm, the attacker yanks and pulls at it, seeming not to notice his own blood running freely from his mangled palm. Edward knows that the other is trying to remove his opportunistic weapon and stab again and again, but it's in too deep and the suction of blood and flesh won't let it go from Edward's arm. It's sheer agony, and Edward howls with it, provoked into lashing out with his right fist and even his head, butting as hard as he can into the face of the gleefully maniacal attacker.

While the other's hands fly instinctively to his face, Edward tries desperately to push his good arm between them, finally managing to wedge and lever enough room to lift his knee up between their thrashing, struggling bodies. He works it up as high as he can and pistons his leg straight, effectively using the strength of his whole body to forcefully propel the intruder across the room.

Caught off guard, the other stumbles over the bed, barely keeping his footing, blood dripping from his nose and from his hands and onto the money-littered floor of Bella's apartment.

Edward knows now that the fight is for his life. The realization gives him the moment of clarity he needs, it galvanizes him into action. A bellow builds up in his chest like an acid bubble and suddenly he's pushing off the wall, just three great lunging leaps between him and a cold blooded killer.

Edward feels no pain as his shoulder connects and sinks into his opponent's sternum. He doesn't feel the separation of his humerus from scapula as the power of his inertia lifts Bella's attacker onto his now dislocated right shoulder and launches the creep clean into the air, toward the gaping window.

Arms flailing, the intruder sweeps in a neat arc toward that black night square, and Edward watches in slow motion as he completely clears the window, and gently, silently, vanishes into the pitch dark, his face a picture of perfect surprise.

Wide-eyed and incredulous, Edward stumbles to the window and peers over the edge, careful to avoid shards of glass sticking out of the frame. His left hand hangs limply at his side as he surveys the scene: the intruder dangles precariously from the tree, trapped by a sleeve snagged on a knurl in the branch.

Snarling, he thrashes in desperation, trying to grasp the tree and pull himself up, but as Edward watches, the sleeve rips under the weight of the flailing, writhing man.

The fabric gives at the seam and the wild eyes of a madman lock with Edward's, as the intruder falls from the tree like a dead weight. A dull thud resounds below, then silence.

Disbelief painted on his face, Edward slumps against the window frame, sliding to the floor in a heap. It is then that he finally registers the choking, gurgling sounds coming from the bed.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

An inch beneath the ceiling is a perfect place to observe- high enough to be out of the way and low enough to see everything. Beneath, the drama unfolds as though it were important- as though life depended on it.

Sounds are incidental: a rubber shoe sole squeaking on the wooden floor or the grunting of men locked in combat, knuckles resounding dully against face, chest and stomach. Bodies twist and fold in an elaborate, violent dance, until one of them leaves the scene flying off into the night.

In the near distance, sirens sound, and soon, there are people- men, flooding into the room with a purpose. They crowd around the bed and swarm over the bodies. There is one on the bed and another lying like a shield over it, dragged now onto the floor, handcuffed and prone.

Watching is peaceful though the flurry of activity below is anything but- the fussing and lifting, the gurney and the sirens, everything is so busy.

Floating at the edge of the ether, Bella watches her bloodied, battered shell being carefully lifted and pierced, attached to bags and beeping machines, a little plastic spout jutting out of her throat like a doorway for her soul.

It's a strange detachment to feel; she wonders how long she can float like this and just observe her own death. She watches, blissfully tranquil as Edward ... _Edward? _... _Edward!_ … is led away in handcuffs past her neighbors, people she hadn't even met. They're covering their faces with their hands, whispering and pointing.

The dark angel lies embedded into the earth below it all, still gulping air, still so hateful that his presence is like a neon red sign flashing into the heavens. If she had eyes, Bella would shield them against the luminosity.

Bella watches his broken limbs straightened by helping hands, watches as they load him into an ambulance and knows that they can't really fix him- this disciple is broken beyond repair, his spine a shattered wreck.

These things are beyond her. She's a silent witness.

She has no head to turn, and yet she looks up to the firmament, waiting. There is no concept of time, only self and other than self. It's at this point that awareness of her shell returns, and a wispy, ethereal umbilical that stretches from her _self_ to her body like a wispy, endless thread.

It pulls at her, and compelled, she follows its lead. Down to her shell, where hands poke and pry, cut away clothing and affix braces.

Down to the bright fluorescent lights and hard gurney.

Reluctantly, she returns back down to the pain.

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**A/N:** Thanks for sticking with me!

I really appreciate all the reviews and alerts- I never thought anyone would read this, and it's incredibly gratifying that you reviewers are willing to discuss the story with me.

Thanks so much for the time you spend reading and conversing with me! Cheers.


	16. Vigil

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions. No rape._

* * *

Edward shifts in his seat, the knot of the arm sling digging uncomfortably into the back of his neck. His forearm throbs hotly and he rests it lightly on his knee, vainly trying to ease the pain.

An incessant ache in his shoulder flares up with every movement, and he's feeling pretty sorry for himself though the nurses have been lovely to him. He's sipping a scalding black coffee while he waits to be told news of Bella, and fighting a pretty strong urge to crawl out of his own skin and away from the bite on his neck.

He thinks she is in surgery upstairs, while he waits outside of the Intensive Care unit, but hasn't been able to find out for sure.

Beside him, Detective Black murmurs quietly into a cell phone. They've spent quite a few hours together, and the proximity is beginning to really grate on Edward's nerves. He's so worried about Bella that he can't think straight, and having answered all their questions a dozen times over, Edward's patience with the police is wearing thin. He's not quite sure to what he owes the pleasure of Detective Black's ongoing company, but he would gladly undo it if the annoying, hovering man would just fuck off.

He has told them the truth over and over again, leaving out nothing, even at the risk of being charged with trespassing and Peeping Tommery. No, he doesn't know who the other guy is. No, he doesn't know Bella's last name. No, he's not in the habit of barrelling through windows at night like a cannonball stuntman. He couldn't have lied about any of it- the presence of mind required to do so was entirely and completely out of his reach. His hands shake, even now, though the adrenalin has long worn off.

The absurdity of this situation would be comical if it weren't for the image of Bella's prone and unmoving body that lingers underneath his eyelids. Things like this don't happen to Edward. It's all such high drama in what he perceives as a mostly simple existence. He draws a deep breath and hangs his head, hair flopping over his tired face.

They had to literally pull him off of Bella in the end; twisting his dislocated shoulder did the trick. In his shocked frenzy, he'd been obstructing the medics from access to her, as he lay desperate across the bed with his one limp arm tucked awkwardly into his body. He must have been shouting because his throat is absolutely red-raw, but he doesn't really remember.

Had he asked Detective Black, Edward would have been told that he was bellowing her name over and over, oblivious to the cavalry charging into the room. He would have learned that he was crying like a baby and trying to hold her bloodied hand, still cable-tied and twisted beneath her body, even as the medics began to work on saving her life.

However, he _can _recall with perfect clarity the moment that someone wrestled his dislocated arm back into place- the agony was exquisitely blinding. Everything before this is hazy, but that one moment is sharp as glass.

Bella had looked so frail, her pallid skin a sickly hue as they'd unwound her braid from around her throat. He'll never be able to erase the visual of the paramedics cutting a hole in the hollow between her clavicles for an emergency tracheotomy- he's doomed to see that in his nightmares forever.

They'd unceremoniously cut her shirt open with scissors and exposed her pale chest, black bruises already rising in welts along her ribs. The ashen skin of her breasts formed a stark contrast to the obscene richness of her matted, bloodied hair, and his mind had snapped closed on that image, preserving it like a centuries-old etching.

It was so wrong to see her nakedness in that manner, but he can't unsee it now. It was just so stark and unexpected that despite his sensibilities, his eyes, ever attracted to the deepest contrast between dark and light, took in the image and couldn't move past it.

He'd almost lost it when she began to convulse while they incised her throat, but he couldn't look away from this evidence of her human frailty until they'd wheeled her out of the apartment and out of his sight, taking her poor, battered body downstairs into an ambulance.

It was, after all, a sign of life, though arriving at the hospital barely hours after the incident Edward feared that he'd find Bella dead on arrival. When they'd wheeled her out of her apartment he didn't think it would be possible for her to survive. She had looked so young and her wings so broken.

He'd begged to be able to go with her in the ambulance, but they suspected he'd been involved in the attack and took him to the police station instead. By the time they released him without charge, it was almost two in the morning, and he had found out more about Bella in those hours with the cops than he had from her own mouth in the ten days since he'd met her.

For the second time that night, he had been faced with something that shocked the shit out of him.

Edward knows that there are implications to consider, but he just doesn't have the heart to think about them yet. There is only so much drama he can handle right now. All he knows is that he's not prepared to leave her. The rest can wait until he's better equipped to process it.

It's still Bella. Just Bella, after all.

There is time to think about it all, maybe to talk about it, if she... no, _when_ she recovers.

Once they released him, he caught a cab and came immediately to the hospital where he waits still, hours later. It's almost dawn. Edward roughly scrubs his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes._ So tired._

A pair of very sensible shoes suddenly appears within his field of vision, startling Edward out of his thoughts.

"Have you had this looked at?" a nurse asks, pointing to Edward's arm. Her kind eyes contradict her stern voice, and a silver name tag graces her crisp uniform above her ample, motherly bosom. _Kate Anders, Care Coordinator._ Edward nods his head. Rudimentary dressings were applied at the scene, but once he arrived at the hospital, he endured a thorough cleaning and stitching of the wounds. Hours later, the pain relief has worn off and his arm throbs like a bastard. Apart from Bella, it's the only thing on his mind.

"Come with me," she says, and her tone allows no argument. Edward stands stiffly and follows dutifully, feeling Detective Black's eyes on him as he walks away.

Following Nurse Anders through echoing white corridors, Edward tries to collect himself. He's so tired. So very tired. He almost bumps into her back when she stops in front of a nurses' station to retrieve some keys, then continues on to a small consultation room. Inside, she opens locked drawers and prepares a fresh dressing. Quiet while she works, Nurse Anders' way puts Edward at ease. She tugs away a corner from the dressing on his neck and regards the mark there with serious eyes.

"This will scar."

He nods lightly. Yes, they've told him this already. It's quite deep, as far as bite marks go. He's lucky that it was probably for show, but the damaged muscle aches and throbs in disagreement.

She looks at him for a moment, her eyes straight and measured. She unbinds the dressing on his forearm and he hisses as it sticks to the wound. She pays no heed, continuing deftly.

"What's your name?" the nurse asks.

"Edward," he answers her, still wincing.

"Are you waiting for the lass who came in earlier tonight?" she asks, matter-of-factly, a slight Scottish lilt to her voice.

Distracted by the pain of having his dressing attended to, Edward is suddenly all ears. He nods quickly. "Bella. Is she alright?" It's almost impossible to keep the desperation out of his voice. Nobody has told him a thing so far, and he has no idea what's going on. He's dying for news of her condition.

"She will be, I think." Nurse Anders finally looks up from his aching arm, searching his eyes. Momentarily stopping her work, she takes the time to pat his hand, kindly. "You're not family though," she says, and Edward realizes he's looking at a straight-shooter. She already knows- that's why he was still sitting out there in the corridor. "Are you her boyfriend?"

Edward shakes his head dumbly, not knowing what to say, because... what is he? His eyes tell the story of his grief for him and Nurse Anders takes pity. "Would you like to see her?" Her voice is quiet and soothing, like a balm, and the words she offers are his first spark of hope. "She's out of surgery now, and in recovery. Not conscious, but... in recovery."

Edward is beside himself, frantic now for her to complete the dressing and let him go. He's afraid to speak and burst Nurse Anders' chatty spell, but nevertheless, he has to ask.

"Please... I just need to know if she's alright. I won't bother her or her family..." he trails off, uncertain if he should beg. He would, if he thought it would make a difference. Nurse Anders just shakes her head sadly, and he falls silent. She looks like she's about to tell him his puppy died, and Edward's heart falls a little, anticipating something awful.

"Well now. Since you're not family, I really can't tell you anything at all." Nurse Anders looks at Edward pointedly to ensure he's paying complete attention to her every word. "Anyway, I would hate to have to tell anyone who might be asking that so far, we haven't actually found any family to contact."

Edward stills completely, understanding that she's divulging personal information about Bella that she clearly shouldn't be. He's perplexed by Nurse Anders' decision to help him, but he's not about to look in the gift horse's mouth. He straightens in his seat and gives her his undivided attention.

"I'd just hate to tell anyone who might ask about that poor girl, all alone in that room, that she has nobody to care for her except us nurses. Do you know what I'm _not telling you,_ Edward?"

Edward nods slowly as his arm is efficiently rebandaged. Nurse Anders pats his hand, the way an old aunt might do just before doling out some contraband candy.

"I'm certainly _not telling you_ that she is in Room 156 on the first floor, either."

Edward releases his held breath and pours all his thanks into his eyes. Expressive as they are, Nurse Anders has no trouble distinguishing his gratitude.

So quietly that she's almost whispering, she leans into him and adds, "Please don't make me regret _not telling you_ these things, my lad."

Edward sits still as long as he can, until his legs feel like springs, ready to propel him across the room and out of the door. With one leg bouncing frantically, he waits only for the moment that he can depart without making it look like a frenzied escape. Nurse Anders finishes her dressing and turns away, utensils clattering as she tidies the counter. Edward finds himself staring at her back, and when she doesn't acknowledge him any further, he stands and ever so quietly leaves the consultation room.

Within minutes, he's on the first floor, scanning the doors for number 156. Two nurses exit a room down the hall and he waits for them to disappear before walking evenly to the door, so as not to draw attention to himself. He stops dead at the sight of the three digits marking his destination, and slowly, softly, steals into the room.

Its dark in there, the fluorescent in the hallway are starkly bright compared to the dimness of the hospital room. An overhead fitting above the bed casts an eerie glow over the room and it's as though the thick shadows that lurk beneath the bed and in the corners want to swallow any hint of luminosity, every ember of life that flickers within.

Edward moves stealthily into the room and tastes his heart in his throat at the image that greets him as he becomes accustomed to the low light. A chair for visitors sits unused in the far corner of the room, and at the sight of it, sadness overwhelms him. It's really true. There is nobody to keep vigil by Bella's bedside. He reaches for it and lifts it silently to the bed. He sits down softly, so as not to disturb her, just a couple of feet away from the bed, trying to reconcile the bruised and bloodied sacrifice with the lovely girl he'd just begun to get to know.

Edward feels relief that he has finally found her, and can sit by her side, but is startled to realize that he has no idea what to do now that he is here.

Bella is the one who walked away. She might not want him here.

_Should I go? Maybe I could visit her tomorrow now that I know where she is._ He sighs, scrubbing his stubbly face. _What do I do?_

_I'll just... stay for a few minutes. See if she's going to be alright. Wait for someone she knows to take over. They can't be far away, despite what the nurse said._

Edward can't imagine that there isn't someone coming, and refuses to try. Blinking away indecision, he really looks now, and takes it in. Takes_ her _in.

Bruises have had plenty of time to rise, and where before her battered skin was dusky and grey, Bella is now black and blue all over. Edward draws a shaky breath at the stillness of her limbs and the forced rise and fall of her chest- the machine that sighs and murmurs, pushing her rhythmic breaths for her is by her side, a tube extending into Bella's mouth and down her throat.

Her blackened eyes are closed, lashes throwing deep shadows like delicate spiders onto her cheeks. Tape and elastic extend across her face, holding the tube in place. Drips dribble their life-preserving fluid into her arm and all of it serves to reinforce just how close she came to slipping away for good. Is she present here, beneath the induced stupor? Only time will tell.

They've cleaned her up somewhat, but her skin looks clammy and shines with a layer of sweat. Her hair, reclaimed from being a weapon against her, lies poking out from between bandages like a broken halo about her head.

Edward gently takes a corner of the coverlet that drapes her and ever so lightly sweeps under each eye and along Bella's nose, drying her skin and carefully avoiding the swelling and the tape that holds her injured cheekbone together.

What he thought was residual dirt he now recognizes to be broken blood vessels under her skin. The dusky, bluish stain is not a trick of the light; her beautiful face is alive with trauma.

_Oh God._

He feels sick, thinking about what she has endured. Any hesitation he might have had over what to do has vanished as Edward grieves over her pain. He feels like he could cry right now, the familiar heat stinging his eyes.

He grits his teeth against it. It would be too much like mourning.

Gently, he tucks the covers back around her and settles his good arm on the bed next to her, their fingers barely a breath apart. If he but stretched out his calloused hand, he could touch hers. Instead, he lays his auburn head on the bed gently next to her fingers. He stares at their tips which lie so close, seeing the dried blood under her nails and around the cuticles. She has such feminine hands- long and slender fingers and pretty, shaped nails. It's macabre seeing them encrusted with the filth of her fight.

_Who is the man that fell from the window? Is he her jealous boyfriend? An estranged husband? ...a client?_

_Did I press her too hard... is this my fault?_

Eventually, like slipping soundlessly from the edge of the world, he falls asleep right there on the side of Bella's bed, claimed by exhaustion and pain, and riddled with guilt.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Outside the door, Detective Black takes in the scene. Holding the proof of Bella's probable identity lightly in his hand, he contemplates waking Cullen and drilling him with more questions, though his gut tells him that the poor bastard knows no more than what he has already given up.

_Isabella Marie Swan,_ reads the emailed profile. Father deceased. Reported missing by the foster mother some years ago, having run away from a foster home when she was fifteen. Presumed deceased. One of hundreds... no, _thousands_ just like her.

Most of them don't turn up alive, and some are never seen again at all, not even in some shallow woodland grave. Black would say she's lucky, but that's hardly correct, taking in her current condition.

The detective reads the facts again, and muses on the state of the attempted murder investigation. The father was a badge, Chief of Police no less, though only in bumfuck Forks; killed in the line of duty when she was small.

The mother's alive, but the term is an empty word; Renee Swan is no more a _mother_ than Black is Walt Disney's left nut. Having checked her out, Black knows that she's an informant for the vice squad, small time in every way.

In fact, he has already dropped a few tasty morsels into the ears of the right people to see if he can flush her sorry ass out of the woodwork. If not the plight of the girl herself, then something about the money in Isabella's apartment ought to do it. Detective Black is nothing if not thorough. He needs to speak to her as a natural part of the investigation and will do whatever it takes to tie this up, though the narcs might not be happy about his interfering with one of their paid pets.

In the meantime, he has spent the last fifteen minutes on the phone to Chief Uley. His instructions are to wait until Isabella Swan regains consciousness, and lead the questioning to get her take on the events that have landed her a bee's dick away from the morgue slab.

Cullen doesn't seem to have the capacity for dishonesty when it comes to this woman; he's undeniably affected by what's happened to her and wears his heart on his sleeve. It's possible that events unfolded exactly as he described them, and his defensive injuries attest to his story- damn, that bite mark alone is something else.

However, while Detective Black waits for Ms. Swan to awaken, others are sparing no effort to discern the identity and background of the unfortunate birdman, and it is this guy that the cops are really interested in.

It didn't take long to establish that while Ms. Swan is an escort working for a local agency. Nor did it take long to find that Cullen is not her client; in fact, if the look on his face was any indication, he had no idea about her after-hours activities. _Speechless_ would be an accurate way to describe him. The guy was completely shocked. It took a few minutes to get another word out of him.

It also appears that she is an innocent victim of a random attack, but they won't be able to confirm it until either she, or her attacker, are well enough to "assist police with their enquiries"- he snorts, making quote fingers in his head.

The latter might never wake up, so it might be academic; Black has been advised that the spine of the alleged attacker is mangled beyond repair and he can't so much as breathe unassisted. He's pretty much kaput, from what Black can tell, totally incapacitated by the sturdy branches he encountered on his hapless (if somewhat not completely voluntary) attempt to fly from Isabella Swan's second story window.

Disgruntled client, or burned boyfriend, certainly nothing more sinister than that. He heard someone at the station refer to this attack as animalistic, but as an animal lover, Detective Black thinks this is bullshit. He's never once seen animals behave this way toward one another, and this guy was only getting started. If he hadn't been interrupted, who knows what they would have found once the stench of rotting meat drew the neighbors to call the police... there were filleting knives for fuck's sake. The guy had a hacksaw. Black doesn't have to use his imagination to determine what he was doing there. It wouldn't have been pretty.

Yes, this _should_ be open and shut.

Detective Black will wait and see.

He takes another long look into the dimly lit room at the sleeping figures, before removing himself soundlessly into the echoing corridors of the hospital.

Watching and waiting.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Time blurs in the darkened, warm room. For the first few hours, it was like a womb in there, pulsing with things that whir and beep and ping.

Since then, the mechanical ventilator has been removed, and Bella breathes on her own once more. Edward almost misses the sound of the machine, it was soothing and reassuring, and he knew she was breathing. Now, though the ebb and flow of her breathing is even, he keeps checking to make sure.

Bella has been in an induced coma while her body heals itself. Her windpipe had been crushed and while the bruising changes the color of her skin, her airways are beginning to function as normal once again. Her punctured lung, perforated by her own broken ribs, will cause her pain when she wakes up, and Edward has since found out that it was the blood pooling in her lung that caused the strange gurgling he heard back in her room; a sound that might never leave him as long as he lives. The lung is also healing, albeit slowly.

It doesn't seem that the hospital staff are walking on eggshells anymore. He's surer that she'll pull through, and soon.

Edward has fallen into a strange in-between state that exists only in this room. The purgatory within these four walls is like the TARDIS- deceptively shoebox size, but much bigger on the inside.

The absence of the machines makes everything else seem louder. There's a myriad of sounds in here; a cacophony.

There's the endless knot within Edward's head- churning and worrying. Then the slow drip in Bella's arm and a creaking chair- Edward's ass is now the same shape as that chair. He has pulled it over to the bed so the backrest leans against it, then sits astride it, resting his arms on the backrest. It's the only way he can sit on it comfortably, and he lays the side of his face on the bed, alongside Bella's lovely, pale hand.

It seems to be the one part of her unbruised, unbroken. It hurts to look at her face, so he looks at her hand instead.

In his good hand he worries the keys to his life: the bike, the warehouse, his parents' place in Forks. He flips one key against the others, ever fidgeting and moving something, somewhere. The keys jingle, adding another layer of sound.

"Did you know that when you smile, there's a tiny dimple in your cheek? I mean... it's more like a crease, really."

Edward leans into the bed and extends a tentative finger to Bella's unmoving face.

"Right... here." The tip of his finger barely alights on her downy skin.

"When you're thinking about something, really thinking, you squint this eye a little more than that one. It's like you're about to wink at me." Edward's finger stirs the air above the apple of Bella's cheek, and he draws a stabilizing breath before almost whispering, "I love it."

It's ridiculous, talking to an unconscious person, but he wants her to know these things. He wants her to know that he is aware and that he's been taking note. Maybe he wants himself to know, too, as though saying it out loud will make it more real.

"You have these small, neat ears." Edward's fingers ghost and inch across her cheek until they can tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear and they linger there, at the sacred place where her jaw meets her throat.

He wishes he could press his lips near there. Even now, after everything.

The truth of this doesn't hit him hard, doesn't lay him flat.

Softly, it settles into his bones like warmth from the sun.

Edward wants to believe that she can feel him here; keeping a vigil and making sure she isn't alone. Deep down, he imagines it would be awful to wake up after the ordeal she has suffered, and find herself alone in this stark, strange room. That, and he likes talking to her, even like this. In fact, her technical absence makes it easy because he's not paranoid about foot-in-mouth disease. He feels bolder for her inability to call him out, press for anything he isn't willing to give. Instead of addressing the elephant in the room, he can say things that are easy. Things that are simple truths.

"Sometimes when you blush, even the tips of your ears are red. Did you know that?"

He swallows hard, thinking about the things that have been stamped forever under his eyelids. A scalpel opening her skin right here at the junction between her clavicles is one of them. A scab is already forming there, and soon there will be a scar, glossy with the pink of new skin. Already it feels like it all happened years ago, though it has only been days.

His own wounds are healing well, his neck itches and he wonders whether a second tetanus shot might be in order before he turns into a zombie or something. His forearm still throbs like a bastard, but it's healing well too, the swelling having receded. The pain killers they've given him take the edge off nicely but it's agony to extend his hand and fingers. Edward vaguely wonders when he'll be able to play music again.

His eyes are drawn to the bruising all around Bella's neck and throat; a contused blemish marking her otherwise lovely skin like a thick collar. Edward hates looking at it- every time he does, rage spreads over him like hot ashes, and he experiences the wretched helplessness and guilt again, and all thoughts of himself and his own pain are unceremoniously quashed.

Breathing deeply, he makes himself look away from this evidence of her trauma so he can calm down and unclench his fists. He won't have anger anywhere near her.

Evenly, he continues, as though she can hear him, the keys softly jingling in his hand.

"And remember when you wouldn't tell me what you did with yourself all day? Well, I know now," he says, and turns his face into the bed, scrubbing it on the sheets.

Murmuring into the cool cotton, he adds "...and I'm not judging you."

_...and I'd like to think that maybe you didn't think you had a choice. Maybe it's not something you want... how did you end up here, in this job?_

When the cops first told him that she was a prostitute, he was stunned, no doubt about it. Shouldn't she look or act a certain way? He had wanted to laugh at himself for thinking it. He kept waiting for feelings of betrayal, or revulsion. He was even surprised that they never came. He was amazed that instead of seeing a call girl, he saw only Bella.

He still sees her.

He wants to believe that she has alternatives now, that this horrible hurricane which has wiped out his relatively easy day-to-day existence will be the catalyst for change in her life too. He certainly can't go back to the way he was before this, feeling like the world's problems are all on his shoulders. Edward feels ridiculous about that now.

However hard he tries though, there is a niggle at the back of his mind that asks: _What will you do if she chose this? What if she chooses it still?_

More than ever, he wants to know everything about Bella, and he's intensely anxious about her state of mind when she finally comes to. More than any concern about her job, he finds himself preoccupied with her recovery.

Edward doesn't know if she's aware of his presence. They're still keeping her sedated and medicated with pain relief, so she spends most of the time comatose. Last night, he took a liberty- he lifted her hand from the sheets and gently placed it on his own head, pretending that it was something she wanted to do. He thought he saw her mouth lift in a slight smile but when he looked closer, she was sleeping. It might have been a trick of the light, or perhaps just his wishful thinking. He put her hand back on the sheets though, just in case.

Edward hasn't left the hospital in two and a half days, and while the nurses baulked at his constant presence in the beginning, he has since learned to dodge them at the check-ups so they don't see him there every single time. He has only been caught here on a couple of occasions, skulking in the corner of Bella's room and doing his surly best to look unapproachable. Perhaps this is why they've mostly left him alone- this, and he's pretty sure he's beginning to stink.

He told one protectively inquisitive nurse that he is Bella's boyfriend, and since then, they've tolerated him here. He has done nothing to dispel the lie, and everything to support it, by making a fuss of her and by keeping her company. He's been washing up in the cafeteria bathrooms so as not to make a nuisance of himself in Bella's just in case, but there is only so far a splash in the sink will take a man. He's in desperate need of a hot shower and a change of clothes.

The problem is that he just can't seem to leave Bella alone. It's an irrational fear for her safety that keeps him there, and so despite everything, he stays and waits, leaving only for food and coffee and the most basic convenience. He hasn't thought past the moment that her eyes open to find him here. All he wants is that moment, and he will wing it from there.

Sighing, he pushes off from the bed and stretches, feeling a cold draught across his kidneys, where his shirt has ridden up. Scratching his stubbly face, he yawns, feeling the ache of the vigil settling into his bones. Reaching into his back pocket, he checks his phone for any word from Jasper, who should have received Edward's text and gotten home by now.

Nothing. _Damn._

"I'll be back in a few minutes. Need more coffee." He stopped feeling stupid about talking to an unconscious person days ago.

The cafeteria is usually half empty by this time of night, and Edward manages to procure a fix of caffeine and a donut in record time. He clutches his prizes and creeps back to Bella's room, looking around for anyone who might figure out that he doesn't belong here, but nobody does. They're all far too busy scurrying about their white-corridor hospital business.

Even the omnipresent Detective Black seems to have disappeared somewhere. However, as he reaches the door of Bella's room, something feels off. Edward stops in his tracks with his hand on her door handle, realizing that she's not alone- there's somebody in the room with her. He holds the door slightly ajar and watches for a moment, at a loss for what he should do.

A woman stands by Bella's bed, bending over her, and she's clearly not a nurse.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for reading. In case you are interested, I posted the Fandoms Fight the Floods outtake as a separate story here on FFn.

Special thanks to a couple of you who were very helpful with technical aspects of this story, in particular to Deleepowman (for enlightening me as to what a nurse like Ms Anders might have on her nametag), and nise7465 for recommending my story to her own readers. Also, to Pyejammies and the other lovely Twitter ladies and men for recommending this, and to Piperbpf, who says she doesn't really review, but then writes exhaustive email critiques that completely blow my mind in the best way. Thank you everyone.


	17. Sever

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions. No rape._

* * *

Edward had almost given up hope that any family would appear at Bella's bedside, so the unknown woman's presence is startling. The little warm bubble he's been living in inside Bella's cozy dark room suddenly bursts. He's uncomfortable, realizing that he is going to have to share her with the outside world now.

A thigh-length black leather jacket hangs loosely on the woman's narrow shoulders, and a heap of unnaturally shiny jet-black hair sits piled on top of her head in some kind of messy, outdated coif.

As though suddenly aware she is being watched, the woman slowly lifts her head and looks over her shoulder, her startled bleak eyes drilling straight into Edward's. As she straightens, Edward realizes what she's been up to- she has been trying to open the drawers of the small hospital issue bedside cabinet, standing next to Bella's bed.

Edward knows that those drawers are locked. He requested a key and locked them himself after stuffing Bella's handbag in there, with her purse and keys inside.

He's not sure who had the presence of mind to bring these things here from Bella's apartment, but the courtesy ended with them being shoved roughly under her bed. He found them there that first night when he almost rolled off the bed; having fallen asleep perched on the edge of it.

Jolting suddenly awake to a voice repeating, "_It's life Jim, but not as we know it"_, Edward thought he'd gone back in time and was perplexed at his surroundings, half expecting his teenage bedroom back in Forks.

He located the origin of the voice to under Bella's bed, then poked around in her bag until he found her phone and switched it to silent. He couldn't help but see the wad of money in the bag, and once he saw it, couldn't leave the bag just lying around for a cleaner or someone else to find. He quickly dismissed the thought of answering Bella's phone; whoever Victoria was, she would just have to wait until Bella decided if she wanted to speak to her.

Looking at this woman now, Edward wonders if _this_ is Victoria.

Unwilling to speak first and reveal his dubious right to be there, Edward waits for her to reveal her identity. He watches as the woman stands by Bella's bedside, motionless and wide-eyed. It's clear she was once a beauty, the remnants persist through the aged but still quite regular features.

Suddenly, it hits him; she's an older, faded version of Bella.

He realizes he's possibly looking at Bella's mother. Her up-till-now absent mother.

She's sizing him up and looking at his bandages, no doubt wondering how he's mixed up in all this. Perhaps she already knows.

Instead of feeling relief at Bella's family finally making an appearance, foreboding floods his heart and he narrows his eyes at her in an unintentional warning.

He watches her closely and tries to articulate what he's feeling. Bella's mother or not, she's bad news- he knows this in his bones.

Her scrutiny of Edward is just as piercing, her eyes stabbing at him, working things out. She thinks on her feet, this woman, and she's fast on the uptake. He is sure that she walked in here hoping to take charge of this situation. She doesn't know what to make of him, so if his presence is unsettling her, then perhaps she and Bella aren't close. If they were, she'd undeniably be in control here.

Edward can almost feel the moment that she sizes him up to be someone of consequence in Bella's life, someone that won't be dismissed with a pointed stare. Her previously combative stance relaxes and she looks alone and suddenly shy.

_Oh, you're goooood, _Edward thinks. _Very, very good._

"Who are you?" He wastes no time gaining the upper hand, taking advantage of her visible submission. Outside, his green eyes are sharp as flint, but inside he churns anxiously, hoping she won't call his bluff. He moves purposefully to Bella's bed and stands directly opposite the woman, pulling himself up to his full height, shoulders back. He looms over Bella like a sentinel who won't be challenged.

Her silence extends a few more seconds before she finally relents. He can almost see the moment she decides to play along. For now.

"Nobody." She turns away from Edward then, her eyes on Bella once more. She observes the ebb and flow of Bella's breathing.

"You're her mother." Edward is matter-of-fact. Accusing. When there is no denial, he continues. "I was wondering when you would show up."

Shocking himself, he says things he has no right to say. She doesn't reply, scratching absently at the crease of her elbow, and boring holes into Bella's motionless face, though strangely, Edward doesn't think she's really seeing her at all.

She should be livid, defensive, and asking _him_ those questions, not the other way around. Edward comes to an instinctive realization that she and Bella are not close. Has she waited for Bella to get over the worst before coming here? If so, why?

_Were you waiting for Bella to die, so that you wouldn't have to dig through her things in secret?_

Edward feels vaguely guilty that his thoughts have taken such an accusing tone. He knows he should be giving this woman the benefit of the doubt, but there's something about her that just screams 'not quite right'. He can't put his finger on it.

Then, she goes and confirms it for him, in a strange whiny drawl, where everything ends up sounding like a question. Her strange eyes slide from this to that, never resting.

"I was here earlier, and Bella asked me to look after her apartment," she says. "But I can't seem to find the key she gave me. I was just looking for her purse. Do you know where it is?"

_Fuck me. Is she for real?_

But yes, it appears that she is. The black eyes that were sizing him up earlier are now guilelessly peering into his own. She is totally believable, and Edward finds himself turning toward the locked drawer until his brain kicks in.

"I'm sorry... when were you here, exactly?" He asks this only to buy some time. It's quite disconcerting that she is so blatantly lying right to his face. He's not really sure how to respond, though his immediate reaction is to be menacing.

The woman stands a little taller, rising to his challenge.

"Earlier." No longer whiny, her voice is a hard punch with no remorse.

They stare at each other for several long seconds and just as Edward's ire really starts to rise, her demeanour changes yet again. It's giving him mental whiplash, just trying to keep up with her. Those strange eyes look right through him, but they appear unfocused, as though she's literally looking _through_ him, and at the wall.

_What the hell is wrong with you?_ Edward stares at her, trying to work out where his feeling of unease is coming from.

"Has she woken up yet?" the woman asks, her voice quiet and husky now, the pretence gone, shoulders slumping. When she's like this, he can see she's lived a hard life. There is a resignation in her face that speaks of years of surrender.

"No."

The silence in the room is so thick with tension that Edward is afraid to move, in case something explodes. He doesn't want to be the first to cave- any kind of movement would feel like defeat right now, so he stands immobile.

He is a stone statue, stoic and immovable beside Bella, hands clenched by his sides. A thought pops into his head, and before he knows what he's saying, he confronts her with the inevitable.

"If you want the money, it's gone."

The way her face freezes is priceless- he has clearly hit the bullseye. She's just staring at him, _through _him, her face wiped of all expression.

_Motherfuck. You are a piece of work._

Edward feels his eyes turn to stone projectiles as incredulous scorn paints his face.

He has worked it out; she's totally pinned. Smacked out of her brain. Now, the strange unfocused stare and the aimless scratching make sense. He would lay a bet on finding a web of tracks under the sleeves of her jacket.

_She's a goddamn junkie._

"It's all in police custody. Evidence."

A long pause and she finally answers sounding defeated.

"I know what you think of me."

"I doubt it." Edward surprises himself with the venom in his own voice.

She hasn't even tried to deny that she's here because of the money in Bella's apartment, and Edward's patience is wearing thin. He begins to get an inkling of how right his instincts were about this woman, who is probably Bella's mother, but who hasn't even commented on her daughter's recovery from a grievous assault.

As if reading his mind, she sniffs, gathers herself, and stands taller again.

"She'll be fine, you know. She always lands on her feet."

Edward snorts, thinking of the moment that he decided to investigate the scene in the window more closely. If he had waited just a few moments... it doesn't bear thinking about. This was as far from landing on her feet as Bella could get and still survive.

"You need to leave."

She looks up at him then, and he can almost see her thinking; _what does he know about me?_

Now that he has realized her affliction, all he can see are the tiny pupils, the sniffling, and the scratching. Edward has nothing but contempt where he wishes he could have compassion.

He's almost surprised at how harshly he's judging this woman whom he doesn't even know, but everything in him wants her to leave before she can wake and upset Bella.

He's not used to these feelings of protectiveness over someone, and puts it down to Bella's inability to defend or even speak for herself.

"Like I said, the money's gone. You need to leave."

He feels vindicated when she still doesn't deny it, doesn't defend herself. A long moment passes, and the woman finally moves, slowly making her way out. She moves to the door backward, not taking her eyes off him, as though he's going to come after her if she shows him her back.

"I don't know what she told you, but it was for the best. I would have only held them back."

Edward doesn't have a clue what she's talking about, but he's not about to tell her that.

"I'll pass that on."

He watches her exit through the door, and the moment that it's closed behind her, he allows himself to deflate, standing down from red alert. He has been so busy posturing and keeping himself calm that he hasn't noticed that Bella is no longer limp, not a ragdoll on the bed anymore- she is stiff as a board, her cheeks red as beets.

The moment he notices, adrenalin rushes his nerve endings.

She's awake.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

… _clink … clink ..._

A pebble and a shell.

… _clink … _

… a pebble and a shell, clinking softly against each other in the pocket of her coveralls.

… _clink ..._

"...ears are red. Did you know that?"

Orange halo, like the fading summer sun. The tinkling continues, softly pinging into her consciousness.

"...wouldn't tell me what you did with yourself all day? Well, I know now."

A pause. Muffled sounds, creaking. Breathing. Movement. _Clink._

"...and I'm not judging."

Comforting, familiar voice._ Whose?_

"I'll be back in a few minutes. Need more coffee."

Oh God, head pounding. Hurting so much. Click. _A door?_

Grasping at her frayed consciousness, Bella slowly becomes aware of her surroundings. The orange halo isn't the bright disc of the sun; it's a wall-mounted light, glowing warmly in a dim room. If her head wasn't reverberating with every tiny sound, the glow might have been pleasant.

The voice was... Edward's? Yes, Edward is here, or rather, he was here.

_What was Edward doing here?_

_Where is here?_

_Where am I?_

Slowly, she raises a hand to her face, touching her cheek with shaky fingers. The pain there isn't blinding, though it throbs steadily. Her head, however, is pounding incessantly and intruding on every thought. Any movement brings fresh swells of agony and she winces against it, trying to remain very, very still.

Bella has been hovering on the outskirts of lucidity, and there were moments where she thought she was dreaming of the Rider... of Edward. Once, the sensation of her hand in his hair was so strong... so real, that she flexed her fingers and tried to anchor them like roots into soil. But, trying to grasp and keep that sensation, she tripped over her nightmares and fell back into the void.

And yet, maybe she wasn't dreaming him up, because he's here... somewhere.

Her hand falls back to the sheets limply, and mourns the loss of his nearness. Could he really be here?

And with that, the memories start filling her mind like a relentless flow of water seeping into a cave. There is nowhere else for them to go, and they flood her brain, rushing in with unstoppable force.

The pain and terror at what happened in her apartment, the twisted grimace of that... _that thing_ writhing above her, it's like a punch to the chest, winding her and robbing her of breath.

A whimper escapes her and with it, an assault of pain from her chest and throat, and for a brief moment she's back to floating weightlessly in the ether, stars within reach of her hand.

Time passes slowly here, in the oubliette.

When Bella comes to a few minutes later, she's calm.

_I'm not dead._

_I should be dead._

_I'm alive._

_How?_

A shadow appears at the entrance to the room, the dark shape moving in the sliver of light under the door. Bella's instinct is to play dead, and so she does. Breathing evenly and closing her eyes, she waits, thinking that Edward has returned. She will wait here, like this, until she is certain it is him.

The door closes softly, and quiet steps near the bed. The urge to look is overwhelming, but she doesn't move. It's easy; she is still only half awake.

A soft rustling off to her side, and then metallic sounds. Something jammed?

"Shit." It's a woman's voice, not Edward's. Bella's eyes sliver open carefully.

_Oh God._

_It's her._

In the book of Bella's life, a picture of this woman would appear prominently, even now. Underneath it, the caption would be penned in the hand of a child with bright, happy wax crayon, made dull and cracked with the passing of time and the loss of innocence.

_Mommy._

There is shame, and then there is _shame_. The burning feeling descends on her like a hungry crow, sinking talons into her shoulders, which stiffen up under the weight. After all the years of hopeful, stupid waiting, then another few spent on feelings of hatred and abandonment, she's finally here. _Why now? To witness my debasement?_

Bella couldn't be more confused. Elation and anger flood her aching heart in equal measures. She's not sure which might ultimately win.

For some reason, her mother seems to be trying to open a drawer by Bella's side.

Bella doesn't know what to do, her mind still too cloudy and her head too painful to make important decisions. She lies still, playing dead, watching events unfold from between slitted eyelids with questions screaming in her head.

_Where were you when I needed you?_

_Where have you been?_

Finally, a small child's voice resounds in Bella's head. _Why didn't you love me?_

It's amazing that her mother hasn't heard these thoughts as though they were shouted out loud. Bella closes her eyes tightly, holding in scalding tears.

Just when it becomes unbearable and inevitable that her mother should look up and see her, the door opens. She immediately recognizes the presence that fills the room and reaches out to her with living, breathing tendrils of energy, even if she can't see him.

_Edward._

Heart racing and nerves tingling, she basks in the fact that he's here... really here. She opens her eyes ever so slightly because she can't not look at him. He's like a walking generator, magnetic and electrifying. His sure step and imposing height dwarf everything in the room, but there is no time to revel in his presence here- it's immediately clear that Edward and Renee are locked in an impasse on either side of Bella's bed. They're so focused on each other that neither of them has realized Bella is no longer asleep.

What follows is nothing short of horrifying, as Renee tries to wheedle her way into her apartment, into her life. Bella is perplexed that Renee has bothered to actually come into the hospital this time, and is completely at a loss to think up a reason for it, a condition not helped by her aching head.

Bella is shocked into becoming a plank of immovable stone on that hospital bed, and can only listen helplessly and remember that the last time that she had this opportunity, Renee chose to stay away completely.

Then, Edward nails it on the head- this is about the money in her apartment.

She can't believe that her mother actually came to see her and in the end it was only for the money. She would have gladly given her every cent of it, it is dirty money and she never wants to see it again; it's evidence of her shame and denial of self. If it's true as Edward says and the police have it, they're welcome to it. She won't want it back.

She feels a profound sense of relief when Renee finally leaves and silently vows to make sure it's for good.

She can feel the tears coming, and wants nothing more than for Edward to just leave already, too. It's absolutely mortifying that he's here to witness this, and that he was forced to deal with Renee, that he even had to meet her under these circumstances. Holding her breath steady and feigning sleep, Bella had listened to every agonizing, horrible word. If years ago she felt surprise that her mother's actions could still hurt her, she's fairly shocked now, by the strength of the disappointment and pain that woman can still dole out.

Bella holds herself together by will alone, and when that doesn't work, her arms envelop her body like a straight jacket. She tries to control the outburst, to stop it dead in her chest, but the tidal wave just keeps coming. Great, shuddering hiccups explode from her chest until she's convulsing with them. There is no dampening these tears as they force their way out of her and into the insurmountable gulf between her and Edward.

And it's painful, the big lungfuls of air hurt her broken ribs and her healing throat, but this grief is overwhelming- it won't be denied. Edward's face distorts in alarm and he's turning to come to her but she can't have that, can't have him touching her, and won't be comforted. It's easier to shove backward against the pillows and endure the pain in her head and everywhere else than give in to affection that's borne of pity. She can't stand to look at his eyes and see that hateful emotion echoed there.

It's not his pity she deserves. It's his scorn.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Edward can't believe what's happening; it's obvious that Bella pretended to be asleep while her mother unintentionally confirmed how little she ever cared for her own child. Bella doesn't look surprised, she looks... resigned. Resigned to her mother's abandonment. It's infuriating, and he finds himself clenching his fists in rage, though his left arm doesn't want to comply and shoots arrows of pain at him in protest.

He has no idea what to do, and is completely at a loss for how to comfort her. It's entirely instinctive that he comes to her, and despite her warning eyes and her defensive posture, his hands reach for her.

Past the shield of her self-enveloping arms and her great, wracking sobs, he touches his palm gently to her hair like she's precious and delicate. He doesn't even know he's cooing soothing sounds at her like a mated dove, appeasing her hurt with gentle strokes. As much as she struggles, he won't be pushed away, and eventually, Bella stops trying and gives in to the grief that wants to soak itself into Edward's shirt.

He holds her so close and eases his hand over her hair gently... it's soft, so soft.

Eventually, her stiff body yields into his and Edward holds her as she cries herself out, sobs subsiding into irregular tremors. He feels the warmth of her breath through his shirt and shifts slightly, carefully getting more comfortable on the narrow hospital bed.

When she doesn't stir, he looks down at her face. Incredibly, she seems to have fallen asleep, lulled by the even strokes of his hand over her hair, right there in his arms.

His intellect tells him that this is a troubled woman, hurt and broken, possibly beyond repair. Edward is not stupid, he knows this is a fucked-up situation, and looking at the tear tracks over her fair skin, he muses over her hidden, dark life.

He could never have imagined it and it's almost beyond belief no matter what the cops said, except that he remembers the masked vision of a few nights prior. Bella has obviously been living a double life, and experiencing some sort of internal crisis as a result. It's in the way she looks at him, like he's the cause of a great sadness- he was perplexed by it, but it's beginning to make sense to him now.

She's ashamed.

He has so many questions. Will she answer them? Time will tell, because as much as his common sense niggles at him to_ walk away_ from this hot mess, there are other voices, clearer still.

His conscience quietly says _show compassion_, to a human being in great need of a friend and kindness. That voice resonates in a fissure in his soul that he didn't know was empty.

He can give that- he can offer her his time and his empathy. He can offer her himself.

But the clearest of all is his heart. It is not wary like his head, nor is it selfless like his soul.

It's loud, unambiguous and unrelenting, and it won't be silenced as it whispers and spins like a glass dome clock, over and over: _I want... I want... _

_I want._

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Jasper Whitlock checks the message on his phone one more time to make sure he's heading the right way. Edward's request is simple: a change of clothes and some toiletries. On impulse, Jasper has also brought Edward's favorite guitar, and it's slung across his back in a soft brown leather case. His left hand holds that of his girl as they make their way through the hospital.

They walk quietly through the morning-lit corridors, trying to stay under the radar of nurses who would surely enforce the strict visiting hours. It's much too early to be here, but once they read the incredible text and discussed it, Mary Alice wouldn't wait. _He needs you_, she said. And so here they are, toting their emergency supplies.

When Edward's message came through last night after Jasper had finally discovered the flat battery and recharged his phone, he and Mary Alice were already home, having arrived in the early morning hours on the night of the attack. They had arrived home to find the warehouse being searched by the police, and Jasper had never been so glad that Edward had smoked the rest of their pot beforehand. As they near the room number Edward gave, Jasper muses on the events that have led him here, a few mornings after the drama.

The story Edward told in his text is unbelievable; he said he had stumbled onto their neighbor being attacked, and had somehow managed to intervene before the woman was raped or worse. Edward didn't impart any specifics, except that the woman and he were both injured and in the hospital, and while Edward and the attacker fought, it was the other man who took a flying leap out of a second story window and now hovers near death.

Edward had given no indication that he knew the neighbor at all, so it is with no small surprise that Jasper takes in the scene as he and Mary Alice quietly enter the dimly lit room.

Edward lies precariously on a single hospital bed, his whole body curving protectively around a woman bruised and battered in his arms. They look asleep, turned into each other with Edward's face against her hair, like Radames and Aida sealed in their tomb. Edward's arm is bandaged, and his neck too, while the serrated bruises along her wrists tell of her ordeal, and Jasper feels Mary Alice stiffen and whimper next to him as her fingers dig into his palm.

He moves backward, manoeuvring them both out of the room, just as Edward opens his eyes and gives Jasper a thankful grin. He mouths "I'll be out in a minute" as they leave the room, and Jasper nods, tightening his grip on the hand of the girl he loves.

He looks down at her as they stand outside, their heads full with the image of Edward and the woman curled around each other like wounded lovers. Jasper's grin fades though, when he sees Mary Alice's stricken expression and the shock reflected in her violet eyes.

"It's alright sweetheart, she's gonna be okay. Edward said she would pull through just fine," he says softly, rubbing his hands reassuringly along her slender arms.

"Oh God Jasper... no, you don't understand!" Mary Alice's hands rise to her face and she speaks through her fingers. "I know her! That's Bella Swan, Jasper. That's Bella, and she used to be my foster sister!"

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for reading!

Apologies to those of you that didn't get replies to your reviews, I managed to get a few out today following another recent FFn fail, where I couldn't see any reviews, let alone reply to them. As a reader, I wasn't able to leave any either, so I'm sure the issues were universal. I appreciate everyone's honesty in their feedback, thank you so much for taking the time to converse with me about this story, be it good, bad or indifferent. Cheers!


	18. Reckoning

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions. No rape._

* * *

Edward can't believe his ears. They're still ringing with Jasper's girl's declaration that she knows Bella from another life, long ago.

"Are you sure?" he says quickly, looking at Mary Alice, both he and Jasper frankly stunned by this news.

Before she has a chance to answer, Edward's phone begins to ring.

Esme's timing has always been impeccable, and Edward is almost entirely unsurprised to see his mother's picture, the one he snapped while she watered her flowers on the porch last summer, flashing up on his phone as he sits down outside Bella's hospital room.

In the slightly unfocused image, Esme smiles, surprised and pleased by the gesture. It's disconcerting to know that this pleasant demeanor probably won't be echoed in the voice of the irate mother he's about to speak to.

Jasper and Mary Alice sit silently just outside Bella's door in the uncomfortable plastic waiting-room chairs as Edward lifts the phone to his ear. He immediately begins to hedge around the facts, falling back on evasive manoeuvres routine employed since he began growing hair in odd places.

"_Edward?"_

"Hi Mom."

"_What happened to calling me when you got home safe?"_

"I was busy. And safe. Safely busy."

"_Don't be cute."_

"But I _am_ cute!"

"_Not when you're being a shit! Be serious please, I need to discuss something with big Edward, not the infinitely more annoying obstreperous boy Edward."_

Edward rolls his eyes and Jasper forces down laughter.

"Yeah... sorry Mom, I should have called," he says, knowing from experience that it's so much easier just to capitulate at the beginning before she really cranks it up.

"_Yes, you should have. I'm going to be twice as difficult now because you didn't, just so we are clear."_

Edward snorts and sits down heavily in a chair right by Bella's door, shaking his head.

"Thanks Mom. I was just hoping for the cold shoulder and uncomfortable silence, but beggars can't be choosers."

"_Oh Edward... all these years and you still don't know me." _Esme pauses dramatically and Edward locks eyes with Jasper, mock fear on his face._ "Just for that last comment, I'm going to really make your life hell."_

"Excuse me?" Edward laughs incredulously

"_We're coming up to Seattle next week, honey. We were going to stay in town, but now I'm quite decided. We're coming to visit."_

"Oh really? Where will you be staying?" Edward just keeps looking at Jasper, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

Jas begins to laugh, laying his head back against the wall. Mary Alice takes his hand, and he lifts it to his mouth, still laughing as he leaves kisses across her knuckles.

"_Don't worry, Edward! I have no desire to slum the night away in your smelly bachelor pad."_

"It's not a bachelor pad!" he says a little too loudly, suddenly exasperated.

"_If I were you, that wouldn't be the part I would be disputing."_

Edward sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes in frustration. He should know better than to get into these kinds of discussions with her. The problem is he has no idea how he got here. Again.

"Mom, being disparaged is _so_ fun, but I was wondering; did you call for another reason?"

"_Try to stay with me, Edward! As I was saying, we are coming up next week. Your father has been invited to guest speak at a seminar and we're going to make a long weekend out of it. Then, we're off to visit some friends in Miami for a few weeks, so I wasn't kidding about dropping in. I want to see you before we go."_

Edward's mind is overloaded; he's not really equipped to deal with the implications of his parents visiting. He has no idea about anything other than this moment right now, in this room, and the one beyond it where Bella sleeps. Who knows what situation they'll all be in next week.

"I'm not sure Mom," he says tiredly, but takes the cell away from his ear and silently pretends to scream _FUCK!_ into it.

When inspiration comes, it slaps him in the face with a thwack, like a wet fish.

"Actually, mom... just thinking out loud here, but I was wondering if..." Edward trails off as the thought forms into words in his mind. He clears his throat and begins again. "It would be great if I could come up to your place and hang out for a bit, while you're gone."

"_Hang out? Why? What's going on, Edward, you were just here!"_

"I know. I'll tell you all about it when I come up. Is it alright?"

Esme considers his proposition for a moment, and in Edward's mind, the idea solidifies.

"_Well, I suppose it would be alright, if you promise to look after the place. If I come home to a hedonistic, drug-fuelled orgy, there will be hell to pay."_

"You know I'd never have one of those without inviting you, Mom."

He can feel her smiling that big, silent smile at the other end of the conversation, and hoping that his monkey-child charm prevails, he decides to push his luck.

"Mom, would it be alright if I brought a friend, too?"

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

"Edward, are you sure about this?" Jasper asks quietly, ever the voice of reason.

"No." _Maybe. Yes. I want this. I want to help her._

Beyond the doors, Bella sleeps exhausted and oblivious to their discussion or the phone call that brought it on. He didn't process it at the time, but the image of her bloodshot, injured eye is stuck on forced replay in his mind. He rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes, feeling the fatigue descend like a drowsy haze.

"And anyway, why didn't you call me back? I was starting to freak out."

"Dude, you're _always_ starting to freak out!" Jasper says slowly, snorting. "I didn't get your text right away. My phone died and I didn't realize 'till last night, and it was too late to call." He looks at Mary Alice and she smiles at him with encouragement. "We came as early as we could this morning."

Jasper leans over and takes one of her hands in both of his, and Edward suddenly feels like he's intruding. He has never seen Jas with a girlfriend before, and it's almost weird seeing these little displays of affection from a guy who's usually more self-contained than a Jedi knight.

Mary Alice looks anxiously between both men, still in a state of shock over her discovery of Bella all these years after their separation. The coincidence couldn't be greater and she's caught up in memories that are suddenly washing up like driftwood. She can admit to herself that she has imagined Bella living an idyllic life somewhere, having found a loving family at long last, just as she had herself, all those years ago. She snorts under her breath. Fairy tales aren't real, after all.

"I just can't believe it's her," she whispers again, mostly to herself, though Jasper's hand tightens around hers in acknowledgement. "I gave up on ever seeing her again years ago."

"Were you very close?"

"God Jasper, we were inseparable. I mean, it was so long ago... I remember that though. I remember being like sisters."

"So, how old were you when... wait. What happened? Were you fostered together for a long time?"

"I don't even really know! I was only eleven when I ended up fostered with the Brandons, but before that, I have no idea how long I was at that other place with Bella, or the one before that..."

Edward listens to their exchange and knows that this is a conversation they will continue later, in private. Taking the opportunity to appraise Mary Alice, he wonders what insights she might offer into Bella's life.

The woman is slight, and some would unkindly say skinny. She's very pretty, if a little fey, with the big, little-girl eyes and sleeves that swallow her hands so that only her fingers exist, floating out from the tight, dark tubes.

She sits perched on the edge of the chair like she's floating a centimetre above it. Light skin shows through dense weave where her knees push out her black tights. She's all angles and elbows, softened by the feminine clothes and long, wavy hair. She looks very young and very vulnerable right now.

"I remember that I loved her. She was older than me. I think I just followed her around everywhere! She was probably so sick of me doing that... I remember that I wished she was my real sister..." Mary Alice's voice cracks with emotion. "What happened to her, Edward?"

Edward swallows hard, wondering if she means now, or all those years ago. He's thinking of all the things he won't tell her, and the ones he can't. He's thinking that these are not his confessions to make.

"When was the last time you saw her, Mary Alice?" Edward asks, stalling for time.

"Just call me Alice. Most everybody does," she says, with a little smile meant for Jasper, who grins at her as if to say _not me, you'll always be Baby to me_.

They haven't been properly introduced, but it seems superfluous now. Edward just nods and settles into his horrible, ass-numbing chair. Sighing, she looks as though she's trying to think back. If she's aware of Edward's delay tactic to answering her own question, she doesn't show it. Perhaps she knows he won't answer.

"The day I was fostered out with Mom and Dad," Alice clarifies, and looks up from her hands and nods, as if confirming it to herself. "The Brandons. They formally adopted me a few years later. The day they came for me is the day I last saw her."

Alice's smile is bittersweet- what came to be a happy home for her to grow up in was gained at the expense of her special friend. She still remembers the grief of leaving Bella behind, and driving away with the sun in her eyes and Bella's lonely silhouette standing next to the house. The grief was so real, so sharp. It was like death, for a kid who didn't belong anywhere, or to anyone.

She sighs deeply, before continuing.

"But speaking of names, she used to call me this silly name. She used to say that I was a shiny kid." Suddenly, Mary Alice's eyes look sad. "And that my name should have been Sparky."

Jasper's arm extends over her shoulders and he gently pulls her to him, rubbing her arm. His silent reassurance is enough to help her continue, and so she does, albeit haltingly.

"She was a bit of a mother hen. I mean, it's silly because she couldn't have been that much older than us, but I think she would look after us younger ones," she pauses, remembering. "I think there were five of us, maybe more at one stage."

"Was it...was it a very bad place to live?" Edward asks.

She pauses as if to remember, and long gone days of childhood reflect like a slideshow on her face, her eyes alive with memories.

"Nah, not really... I mean, it had its moments. It wasn't the best, or the worst, I guess. Shelly had a really big heart."

Edward observes her body language, and notes that she's not exactly relaxed. She's obviously not completely comfortable discussing this, and he suddenly realizes that she has no idea about him- as far as Alice and Jasper know, Bella is only his neighbor, nothing more. He straightens in his chair when he thinks of the picture he presented them back in Bella's room; they must be wondering what the hell is going on here, and just how close he and Bella really are. Especially after the phone call where he received his mom's approval to take her back to Forks.

"I know this must seem... really fucking odd. I can't even explain to you..." He opens and closes his mouth a number of times, wondering where to start in order to explain the most basic things to them. The wound in his arm itches, and he scratches at the bandage absently, trying to form the words.

"So, Bella and I met a few times before all this," Edward gestures to Bella's room, "Just as friends. She found a book I lost." He shakes his head incredulously. It feels like a hundred years ago that he first sat across from her in that red vinyl booth. A warm feeling unfolds in his chest at the memory of how lovely she looked, and how skittish at the same time. He knows why, now. He knows that thing, that dark, shameful thing that she didn't want to tell him.

Looking up, he acknowledges his rapt audience, giving Jasper a tight smile. He can't tell them Bella's secrets, but he can tell of his own part in this horror story, beginning the day she returned his book at Blondie's.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Just an hour or so ago, Detectives Black and Call watched Renee Swan as she skulked away from Isabella's room. Moving silently and perfectly in tandem, they immediately fell in behind her and cornered her at the elevators. They tag-teamed a fast and tight ambush of pointed questions, designed to strip away any bullshit she might have been able to concoct, had she been given time to prepare for a formal police interview.

Swooping in like predators, he and Detective Call harangued her until she flopped around like an untrained seal, uncomfortable about talking to them, even with her solid alibi. In the end, Black had let her go, growing more disgusted with the human race for every second that he spent in her grating, whiny company.

Should he feel sorry for a woman who abandoned her own kid at the tender age of four? He knows from experience that girls need their mothers. His own family is woven so completely around the central pillar that Leah upholds, as tight and beautiful as ribbons on the Maypole.

Jacob Black's daughters look at their mother with nothing short of the kind of love that makes the world a good place. A safe place, even for Jacob, despite the hideous shit he sees out here on the streets every goddamn day.

Girls need their mothers alright, and mothers need them right back. He doesn't know what to make of this one, who had turned away from her own kid like she didn't value that love.

Here she is, turning away again, just to make sure the severance is complete, in case there was ever any question.

Though he knows better, he can see the faces of his girls in Isabella Swan. He knows it's unwise, but feels it anyway; the sadness and sympathy for a fellow human being, the helpless grief for a hurting child, though she's certainly no longer a child.

The call from Chief Uley comes as the Detectives make their way back to Ms. Swan's room.

Jacob stops mid-stride and pins his partner in place with big raven eyes. They get bigger as the seconds tick by, and Embry Call waits silently alongside him in the corridor, sidestepping out of the way of passing nurses.

The case has broken, and it's bigger than they could have ever suspected.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Bella's eyes burn and throb in her skull, the heat of her healing wound outdone only by the searing shame under her ribs. It's undeniable now, that Edward knows the truth about her. She can hear him out there, talking about everything except that thing, that one thing.

That's how she knows.

He doesn't say _'I don't know_' or "_I wish the cops would tell me_'.

He says nothing. Nothing at all.

That's how she knows.

_What the hell... how does he, why... HOW does he know to be here? Why is he here?_

Her mind can't even formulate the question, let alone come up with an answer. The last thing she can remember is telling him no. She remembers breaking her own heart.

And yet, here he is.

For some reason, he's helping her keep her disgusting secret, too. Who knew that you could wake into morality? Bella thought she was beyond feeling dirty for her choices. She had thought that necessity precluded morality.

She knows better now.

Dully, she wonders if the shame and self-disgust will always be as intense as it is now. Will it ever wane? If not, she might never be able to sit in a quiet room again; else her head explodes with the irrepressible noise that pounds inside of it.

Earlier, she had awakened abruptly almost as soon as Edward left the room. She heard his phone ringing and heard one side of his conversation with his mother.

_Who is the friend he wants to take to their house while they're away? He couldn't mean me, could he?_

She had still been reeling from that thought when he addressed his friends. He had said a name she never thought she would hear again, and she almost leapt out of bed to get within eavesdropping distance. She would have made it, had the pain in the back of her head not flattened her to the bed almost the second that she tried to move.

As hard as she had tried, Bella hadn't been able to hear the response, but it's clear that she heard right- he's talking to Mary Alice... to _Sparky_ out there. Bella stifles a sob, the pain and horror fighting against such an incredible thing: that Sparky might be sitting out there. That she's real and that's she is just beyond this door.

With Edward.

She feels like her skull isn't big enough for all this... this convergence. Everything is happening at the same time, and it's so fast, lightning fast! She can't keep up with her own feelings. Her brain might explode, covering everything in the room with bright, dripping comic book gore.

_Am I ready to see them? How is she? What does she look like now? Will I recognize that little ever-smiling tomboy in there? That little bright light?_

Bella goes wondering inside her head and stumbles into a memory so strong and vivid that it knocks the breath from her lungs.

_...Such a tiny little kid, looks like she's eight, not eleven. Skin and knobbly-knee bones._

_Corduroy flares and a long sleeve t-shirt, looking like a little boy with choppy black hair sticking up all over the place. No dimple in sight now. No book on her lap or button-eyed teddy bear now._

_Just standing there, up against that stupid big Tyler, looking like she wishes the earth would swallow her and spare her a painful, humiliating death. Not gonna happen, cos the earth don't care._

_Walking over to the little black-haired thing looking so scared, like Bambi in the headlights. Big kid Tyler smiling like he's winning, and hey, maybe he is._

_Don't know what he wants, don't know what Bambi has, but it doesn't look like a fair fight._

_Taking a closer look, it seems that that big kid just wants something easy to help him feel bigger, better, stronger._

_He's just a small fish like the rest of them, but right now he's the biggest of the small. He's the whale and they're the plankton in this grubby pond. Looking around for an adult. Nobody there. Fuck it._

"_Leave her alone, why dontcha? She's only small!"_

"_What's it to you, Smella?"_

"_It speaks! Just leave her alone you big doofus, it's not like she can do your homework!"_

"_It's not about homework, so mind your own business!"_

_Not homework? Must be money._

"_Already training your next thief, Tyler?" It's a dog eat dog world._

_Squinty eyes and frowny mouth giving him away. He wants the new one to go and lift some cash from Shelly Cope's purse._

"_Aah shit, Tyler, leave her alone! She'll just get busted, then we'll all be in the craphouse."_

_Sizing her up, calculating eyes now. What the fuck's he looking at? Overgrown idiot._

"_Why don't you make me, Smella!"_

_Grabbing the little thing's hand and pulling her away from Tyler. Gotta talk to her and explain how things work here. First thing: stay away from Tyler and his buddies. Second thing: stay away from Tyler and his buddies._

_He's not bad exactly, just a big, stupid boy, brains not grown into the size of his big body yet, just floating around in there touching the plate now and again. Shelly's first foster kid and her blindspot. She always wanted a big strapping boy, and now she's got him._

"_Why don't you grow a brain, Tyler. She gets in trouble and she'll tell Shelly straight away it was you put her up to it."_

_Scowling, he's not quick with a comeback. He's looking at her like she's a steak, and what the hell? Looking at my chest! Must not look down to see if I've got food on my top. Must not look down..._

_Little girl's scared, doesn't know what's going on. Not very savvy. Taking her hand firmly now, whispering, "What's your name, little thing?"_

"_Mary Alice." Whispering. Big Bambi eyes watering._

"_Go on now Mary Alice, everything's fine. Go play outside."_

_Little thing doesn't need to be told twice. Got some smarts after all. She's so fast running for the back door, she kicks up the dust bunny tumbleweeds._

_Tyler looking shifty now, not sure what to think._

"_Don't you get her into trouble with Shelly, Tyler Crowley, you just leave her alone. She's just a little kid."_

_Huffy now, he's acting like he's offended. Got a heart in there, after all, under all that bluster._

_Not scared of you big guy, just watch and see!_

_Taking his hand is easy, but he's clammy, nervous. Suddenly it seems Bella has the upper hand._

_Thinking about knowing what to do, thinking about that rush of sweetness when a boy she liked first did this with his clumsy mouth and shaking hands behind the bike sheds at school. Kissing and touching, the undiscovered country._

_And just like that, Bella is the power and the word. She's the sport and the trophy. She's a deck of aces and she's the whole set of those stupid collectible cards boys love so much._

"_You leave her alone, alright?"_

_Just like a big cartoon BAM!, the power is hers to bestow, as she puts Tyler's clammy boy hand on the bud of her chest, the bullseye he's been staring at for a few weeks now, ever since her favorite shirt got a little tight. Such a basic thing, a natural thing. It's been here all along, this power, just waiting to be discovered. The power to control._

"_Yeah, alright." Tyler squeaks, and it's the last time he gives that little kid the time of day until they cart her away to her new home, months later. He's too busy becoming a man to notice._

_Bella notices, but only because she's on top of the food chain now, at least in this little ecosystem, and the view is great from there. For the first time in her life, she has something someone covets. She has found a way to control an aspect of her life, absurdly, by giving it to others ..._ and suddenly, she's laughing, laughing so hard in her stupid hospital bed. Big barks of laughter shake her whole body like an earthquake.

It's all so fucking absurd.

The whole thing.

Her whole life is absurd, and she's laughing, clarity finally raining all over her like sharp, pointy hailstones. Laughing at herself. She could be dead, should be dead.

Bella has no doubt that soon, there will come a day where she has to face these things that have led her here, but that day is not yet. The memories will just have to knock around the cortex of her brain until then, packed away and labelled 'to be sorted.'

Instead, she has the opportunity to laugh at herself, to see Edward and Sparky, to walk out of this place and into the glare of a sunlit morning again. Laughter dissolves into giggles. Bella might never look at herself the same way again, now that it's clear she should, in fact, be dead. She's kind of a zombie. Or something.

_What will Sparky think of me?_

Giggle.

Deep breath.

Calm.

_Absurd._

Bella listens with every ounce of concentration that she can muster, hearing Edward tell his version of their meeting, which seems like it happened in another lifetime. Her own mind goes there too, remembering how she pined for him, this stranger, who was lean and tall like an autumn-haired poplar, hair whipping in the autumn breeze. The strength of her own emotions was so frightening, but it's nothing compared to the visceral pull she feels toward him now.

Bella doesn't remember ever being comforted with the kind of warmth that Edward has shown her. It's confronting and alien, but... it's also too wonderful to question too deeply in case she should wake up and find it never happened. Bella can still feel his hands on her, the ghost of his fingers in her hair, on her face.

The image of him on that first day long ago is still burned under her eyelids, like she knew it would be. His fingers trying to slide a stubborn zipper, the helmet hanging from his hand, and that ridiculous hair, whipping up a crazy red storm... she sighs deeply, in sudden understanding.

It's undeniable.

_I love him._

Inside her mind, there is momentary silence that only a great truth can leave in its wake.

Bringing her hand to her face, Bella wipes across her cheek, collecting tears. When she finally looks up, it's to the warm earth eyes of a man in a dark suit and a determined set to his mouth.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

"Ms. Swan, I'm Detective Black, this is Detective Call. How are you feeling?" Jacob asks from the open door, noting the unhealthy sheen to Isabella Swan's eyes, the burst of color high on her cheeks. She's been crying.

"Confused. Glad to be here," she eventually answers, her voice hoarse and gritty. Sore.

Jacob smiles. "Are you feeling up to talking? We won't take up much of your time." He smiles at her, hoping to put her at ease. They're not here to question her. They're here to tell her how lucky she really is. "Maybe we can clear up some of the confusion."

"Sure."

He and Embry enter the room, but as the door swings closed, Isabella clears her throat.

"Would you... is Edward out there?" Her voice is small, unsure.

"He is." Jacob confirms, having just walked past Cullen and a couple of friends out in the hall.

She clears her throat again and forces out her request.

"Would you ask him to come in?" She looks at him with the saddest eyes, then adds, "If he wants to."

Embry steps out of the room, but returns within moments, before the silence in the room can become thick enough to slice.

Cullen follows, eyes flicking between both detectives, then settling on the girl on the bed. She doesn't look at him, but he moves toward her purposefully, settling beside her at the head of the bed. She rises on her elbows and scoots back a little slowly, wincing. The bruise over her cheek is spectacular; a rainbow of color now that the tape has all been removed. Her eye is entirely red; angry, crimson blood red from the seepage under her skin, so dark that her brown iris barely stands out.

Jacob waits while she makes herself more comfortable, eagle eyes taking in the care that Cullen shows while awkwardly fluffing up pillows and easing her back onto them.

_Interesting._

"Detective Call and I have been working on your case since your attack," he says, explaining their presence and gauging her reaction. Isabella stares at her hands while Cullen stares at her.

"What do you remember, Ms. Swan?" Embry asks, always able to move things along.

She swallows dryly. "Uh... I remember..." Suddenly, her eyes are big and terrified. "Did you get him? Is he... oh god!"

Jacob shoots Cullen a look, and to his credit, the guy's already there, calming her with words and a reassuring hand.

"They did, Bella, they did. He's not going anywhere. You're safe. You're completely safe," Edward coos at her, close to her ear. Jacob sees the way her eyes …_ God, that red eye! _… soften in understanding, while her whole body tenses at Cullen's proximity. The perfect contrast.

_Yes. Very interesting._

"The man who attacked you is in custody. He was incapacitated by the injuries sustained in a fall from your window."

"He fell? From my window?" Her eyes are as big as saucers.

"Following a struggle, yes."

"A struggle?" she repeats in a small voice.

"Yes. If it hadn't been for Mr. Cullen here, your neighbors might never have been alerted to what was happening at your apartment. Mrs. Butler might never have called us. Mr. Cullen should be congratulated on his quick thinking."

Jacob watches with bemusement as scruffy Cullen suddenly becomes a little more animated. Hands like claws rise up toward hair that looks as though it needs a damn good wash, only to surface-rake it awkwardly.

It's Isabella's turn to stare while Cullen looks anywhere except at her face. The look of shock she's wearing indicates that she wasn't aware of his involvement. Of course, she hasn't been awake long.

"How well did you know the man who attacked you?"

"I didn't really know him. He was a client, that's all." The last is delivered decisively. With finality. She's calling them out. Inviting them to judge her.

"Did you know he had a key to your apartment?"

"What? No!"

"Any idea where he could have gotten that key?"

At first, she shakes her head. "Oh, wait," she says slowly, "check my purse, I got two keys when I moved in. I have mine on my key ring and I've just been carrying the spare one loose in there."

Abruptly, Cullen gets up off his chair and plunges a hand into the front pocket of his jeans. He retrieves a small key, shooting a sheepish look from under cover of his hair. He uses it to open Isabella's bedside drawer and retrieves her small black purse.

None of them say anything when he places it on the bed alongside her hand. Isabella straightens up and begins to rummage around in there, and then stares inside it at the contents of her bag, frowning.

"It's not here."

As expected. They might never get to the bottom of how he got that spare key, but James Henry Harris- a high school dropout and complete nobody, according to the Chief- has managed to stay under the radar for years. He is obviously a resourceful man.

Jacob acknowledges her with a nod, and then continues, "The way we figure it, he was already in your apartment when you got home, already in the middle of a robbery. Did you interrupt him?" It's not a trick question exactly, just a way to weed out a hypothesis. They already know that the attack wasn't motivated by money.

"I don't think that's right. He wasn't robbing me," she says quietly, eyes cast down onto her wringing hands, "I was leaving. I was packing. I think he broke in when I was packing."

It's Cullen's turn to stiffen at her side, and he straightens his shoulders to go with his mouth, which is now set in a hard line. Everything about him is tense and rigid.

Aah. There it is. The unfinished business between these two. Not that it's important to the case, but Jacob just likes to read people. He likes to hone his craft at any opportunity. Had Isabella left Cullen high and dry? Was he following her to convince her to stay? Was Cullen's tree-climbing really an innocent coincidence? Either way, these are the luckiest bastards he's met for a long time.

"Right. So you heard him breaking in?"

"Well, I think I heard my front door opening. I'm pretty sure..." she says, sucking in her bottom lip, worrying it brutally with her small, even teeth. "I tried to..." And that right there is a threshold reached. Isabella's shaking hands flutter up to cup her face, fingers pressing into her eyes.

"He'd been watching me. Watching us at the cafe. He wanted to know who you were," she whispers, inclining her head toward Cullen.

"He told you this?"

"Yes. He told me... he wanted to know about Edward. He said he'd been watching," she says, and begins to sob. Jacob says nothing, just watching their body language. Cullen's a pin to her magnet, leaning in to her, trying to comfort her. Jacob wonders if their attraction will survive these kinds of disclosures, and the ones still to come.

_There's no need to prolong this. Let them get on with their lives._

"I want to tell you both how lucky you are," he begins, sorting through the information that he should share with them, versus the details that he can spare them, "because it appears that you are not the first target, Ms. Swan. We have discovered some information that leads us to believe there have been other victims." A pause, to make sure they understand. "Girls who were not as lucky as you."

Isabella's jaw drops in horrified astonishment.

Cullen's glare threatens to burn a black pinpoint into Jacob's head.

"Your attacker has been charged with your attempted murder and will probably have more charges laid against him as we investigate into his activities. There's no doubt that Mr Cullen has saved your life, Ms. Swan. He's also the only witness to your attack. You will both need to testify in court at a later date."

Jacob Black isn't about to tell these people anything that would open the crevice to hell any further. He won't tell them about Harris' bizarre apartment, where remains of several lives have been found in a dedicated room. Chief Uley said that there were photographs to indicate there may be as many as seven previous victims, all young women like Isabella Swan. There is a lot of forensic work still to do, but Harris appears to have kept mementos of his victims; a lock of hair, a stocking, a wrist cuff. A finger. They have no idea whom it belongs to, yet.

No, Jacob isn't about to tell them these things. No need for more people to have these kinds of images in their heads. The cop in him can't wait to see it for himself. He's looking forward to that special state of mind that allows him to see individual evidence as pieces of a much bigger puzzle.

He watches these two survivors eye each other, each wanting the other to be oblivious to their looks. As a father, he hopes that they can walk out of here and be each others' crutch, without the kinds of nightmares that come from knowing too many details.

When he and Embry leave the room a few minutes later, his mind is already on that sinister place that Chief Uley says holds the evidence to several unsolved crimes.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you very much for reading.


	19. Paladin

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions. No rape._

* * *

Having set a day for Bella and Edward to give formal statements, the detectives are barely out of the room when other curious eyes appear in the doorway.

Any thoughts of awkward introductions die before they really form as Edward watches Bella's face transform into perfect stillness, her eyes wide and bright.

Bella takes in Sparky's appearance, her big smile and healthy air, and it's like a spring breeze blowing the nostalgic cobwebs off her eyes- everything is so much clearer.

This woman isn't the androgynous little tomboy she once knew as Sparky, she has become Mary Alice: beautiful, all grown up and well-loved. Bella's hopes for her friend have all materialized in this young woman, whose pretty eyes haven't changed in all those years, and Bella finds herself just staring, at a complete loss for words. Those eyes look much older than Sparky's twenty-one years.

With Edward sitting beside her, Bella hasn't so much as moved until suddenly Sparky is in her arms, sharing a tearful embrace, smelling of warm wool and clean skin. Never before had Bella been so overcome with emotion as to have been rendered absolutely speechless, but in this moment, that's exactly what she is.

Slowly, her own hands lift to return her childhood friend's gentle hug, and she weaves her fingers in Sparky's hair- a lifeline to hang onto with white knuckles, even as the instrument of her own near-death falls in limp and greasy clumps down her back. They hold each other in silence until the tugging on Bella's arm becomes too insistent to ignore, and she has to acknowledge the blood-pressure cuff, and the disapproving nurse at the other end of it.

With no hesitance at all, Sparky nestles her face right into Bella's hair, whispering, "It's really you! I can't believe it's really you!"

And then, tightening her grip around Bella's aching body, she says the words that release and bind in equal parts.

"I know we can't do this now... but I just wanted to see you!" Bella hears the unspoken end of that thought,_ I know we can't do this now, but soon, Bella, soon we will_.

"Sparky... I mean _Alice_, I don't-" She stops herself, trying to control the tide of sobs about to break. _I don't know what to say. I don't know what to tell you and what to ask you. How did you come to be here? _

_Sparky, I don't know how to speak to you. I've forgotten how._

"You can still call me Sparky. In my mind, you always have," answers her friend, kissing her cheek as she stands back, leaving Bella cold in her absence.

Sparky seems to know that there's nothing more to say in front of all these people. Edward turns away as though not wanting to intrude on their reunion, but the nurse who came to check Bella's blood pressure has no such qualms. She makes no pretense about needing to do her job. Soon enough, she has herded almost everyone from the room, only stubborn Edward refusing to be dismissed.

Bella clears her throat painfully, and turns to him, hoping to buy a moment for herself without hurting him in his diligent loyalty, to feel, to absorb what has just happened.

"Edward, could you please make sure you get her number?" To her own ears, Bella's voice is thick with emotion. It bubbles so close to the surface that cracks in her armor begin to fill in from underneath.

All too eager to help, he rushes out of the room after Sparky, and the moment the door swings closed behind him, she allows her grief to break the surface, rising up to engulf her hotly like molten rock.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Bella wakes with a start.

Disoriented, she scans the room quickly, eyes finally stopping their frantic flight over a lightly snoring Edward, her only companion in the dim light of the already high moon. She blinks away the sleep and just loves the vision of him, asleep so peacefully on the edge of her narrow bed.

Events of the day return to her, and she sifts through them while her eyes make maps over Edward's body, the shape of his hands, his shoulder blades, and his strong back. Even as her eyes follow the thrilling contours of his body, her mind relives the events of the exhausting day. She thinks of the nurse comforting her following Sparky's brief visit, rubbing her back and sweeping back her hair, then helping her out of bed.

She thinks of the first tentative steps she took, each one surer than the last. She thinks of the parade of professionals: counsellor, victim liaison officer, doctor and administrator who all came to see her smelling of red tape, and she's so glad that part's over. She can go home tomorrow, her follow-up scans satisfactory.

Only one thing really remains, and she has no idea what steps are involved in paying her hospital bill- not having insurance has made it astronomical. Bella's lip curls up at the irony of using the wads of literally bloody money to pay for all this, and yet, that's what she will need to do.

Bella wants to extend her arm and reach her fingers into Edward's hair, to flatten her palm against the angle of his shoulder blade and feel his solid warmth, but is afraid of wrecking the perfect moment. She doesn't want to ruin the simple pleasure of watching him without the worry of being observed herself, of having to force her greedy eyes into neutrality to hide the ridiculous yearning.

Instead, she watches Edward sleep, gloriously relaxed for once with his head resting lightly on his arms.

She suppresses a giggle when his pinkie finger abruptly begins to twitch.

_Typical Edward: unable to still, even in sleep._

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Somehow, she must have managed to drift off while watching him, because when she wakes again, it's mid-morning and Edward is gone, though his guitar and bag remain in his place, propped up against the grey plastic chair he's been warming for days.

Knowing he would never leave these things behind, and trusting him not to leave _her _behind, Bella is calm.

She rubs gently over the knuckles of her hand, soothing the deep purple bruise where the IV used to be. The lack of it makes her feel strangely unfettered. Gingerly, she lifts herself off the bed, toes lightly touching the cold floor while she slowly gets her balance.

Pain meds are keeping her floaty, and it's not too hard to pad over to the bathroom by herself. Within moments, she feels more human for having brushed her teeth and splashed some water on her face. She pauses at the sink, pink hands braced on either side of the cold, white porcelain.

Then, reluctantly, Bella lifts her face to finally confront the woman in the mirror.

Her mouth drops opens in silent astonishment at the stranger that stares back at her so intently, the colors of the rainbow all over her face. It's like a macabre circus clown exploded nearby and the only things missing are the blood-soaked pom poms.

A shaky giggle bubbles out of her, but Bella is too busy staring open-mouthed at herself to notice.

Taking in little details, she sobers up, her warm eyes cooling.

Never mind the greasy hair, the clammy skin and the cracked, dry lips- all of these need but a little time to fix and heal.

Never mind the scratches and cuts on her skin- those are already healing.

Never mind even the ugly purple garrotte-like stain circling her throat- it's pretty spectacular and still very tender, but it will heal in time, too.

It's her eyes that kill her. They're the eyes of a woman who has seen the end of the coil.

A blood-red almond of her eye stares back at her, the haemorrhage so complete that almost her entire eye is a pool of red. The bruising of her fractured eye socket follows the rise of her cheek and extends across the bridge of her nose, darkening around both eyes.

Around her eyes, her attacker has stamped a mask onto her face for all to see, and there's nothing she can do to cover it up, or to remove it.

It's not mysterious and sparkling, his mask, it's brutal and vicious.

The effect is grisly, and a shock to Bella, who has seen the pity reflected in the faces of others, but hadn't yet seen the damage to her own face. She can't believe the extent of it.

It's hideous.

Slowly, she closes her mouth and stares, long and hard.

This is what he would do to her.

He would stamp her with this mark forever and have her buried with it.

"I won't let you," she whispers to her reflection, as though it were the face of the ghost who haunts her. "I won't fucking let you."

Loading all of her conviction into her eyes, Bella stares down her image and tries to conquer her fear. Letting out a long-held breath, she hears the door to her room opening.

"Bella? Are you in there?" says Edward tentatively, as though afraid to spook her. The sound of his voice is the focus she needs.

"I'm here."_ Is this what he sees when he looks at me? Does he see this mask?_

"Are you alright? Do you need a nurse?" By the sound of it, he's right outside the door.

"No, I'm okay. Just... freshening up. Stretching my legs."

There's a pause, when Bella thinks that he might have gone, but just as she's about to open the door, she hears him, releasing a deep breath so close to the door that he's almost in the room with her.

"Bella?" he asks, his voice permeating softly through the grain of the wood.

"Yeah?"

"Can we talk?" Time has stopped with her hand on the door handle, water dripping in slow motion from the faucet beside her. Eventually, her mouth opens, and words come out.

"I'll be right out."

Trying to compose herself, Bella shakes her hands out, casting one more sideways glare at her alien face.

"I won't fucking let you," she mouths at her reflection, and clenches her fists.

This isn't some john out there, for whom she has to perform. It's not someone that wants their piece of her to fill a gap in their own life.

It's Edward waiting for her, the first person to look into her eyes and see _her_.

It's Edward, who hasn't judged her, and who has been here for days when her own mother wouldn't think of it.

This is the man who saved her life.

It's surprising and more than a little frightening, but Bella realizes that she's willing to tell him anything, to answer all his questions. He hasn't been scared away yet, and he has seen the worst already, in her past and in her present.

She suddenly realizes that he might want to be a part of her future, too.

Gently, she pulls open the door and finds Edward leaning tiredly on the frame, an arm stretched across the doorway. He looks like a poster for the things she didn't know she was missing.

"Hi," she says, looking at his scuffed boots and denim clad legs. The fabric hangs loosely, following the curve of a long shin. She swallows hard, loving everything about him, even this trivial thing, the way that his jeans both cover and reveal his spare build. He drops the arm that holds up the frame and his fingers flutter up to rake the heavy, thick locks from his face.

"Hi," he replies as green eyes alight on her skin, roaming over her arm, her shoulder and the dirty hair that falls over it. Bella wishes she had taken a shower. It's ridiculous how self-conscious he makes her. Only _he_ does this.

Unaware that she's doing it, she raises her palm to her cheek, laying it over the brand her attacker has left there, but Edward's fingers are there too, faster than hers. He intercepts her hand and lifts it away, their fingers touching, tingling, lighting fires.

"Does it hurt?"

His question surprises her._ Does it?_ She has been so consumed with how it looks that she has paid little attention to how it feels.

"Yes. Sometimes." Truthfully, the only thing she feels right now is the place where they're connected; there is a delicious roughness to his fingers against hers, which she feels not in her fingers but elsewhere, in lower, darker, secret places. Who knew that even she could have such mysterious places? They're just like she has always been- hidden in plain sight.

"Yours?" she asks, looking at the thin dressing over his neck. It's just a waterproof bandage now since his wounds are healing so well. Echoing his gesture, she raises her hand tentatively and rests her fingertips over the flesh-colored bandage. They're so close now that Edward's warm breath raises goosebumps along the curve of her neck, where it meets the fabric of her hospital gown on her shoulder, while they stand in the doorway like a complex human puzzle.

"Sometimes," he says, and Bella almost passes out with the intensity of their position. He's completely still, only his breath moves the air between them.

"You got this when you-"

"Yes," he says abruptly, cutting her off; saving her from having to say it and take the guilt upon herself. She won't be deterred through. She plows on like a beast of burden, relentless.

"And this?" Bella's other hand dares a caress across his forearm, brushing over the bandage that still wraps it, and which is visible under his casually rolled-up sleeve.

He nods once, almost imperceptibly.

"Will you tell me what happened?" She wonders whether she really wants to know even as the words leave her mouth.

"One day," he replies, turning his arm palm up, and lightly grasping her by the elbow. It's as if he knows that she's not yet ready to relive it. Perhaps he himself is not ready either. "I want to ask you something else," he continues, fingers lying against her elbow like hot irons, branding her skin.

_Does he feel this, or is that hot, thunderous thrill one-sided?_

"So ask," she says, shocked at how normal her voice sounds when her insides burn at his touch. As if she could say no to anything he asked of her.

"You don't have to go back there... to your place, if you don't want to," Edward says quietly, and releases her elbow, as if not wanting to influence her decision with his physical draw. "My parents are going away for a while and we can go stay at their house in Forks. It's a little town on the-"

"I know where it is," she interrupts gently. _No secrets. No regrets._ Her now free arm falls like an autumn leaf back to her side, bereft.

"Yeah?"

"My father lived there," she pauses to think, then plunges in, "I lived there. When I was small."

The silence is heavier than lead as it beaches itself in the space between them.

"You come from Forks?" Edward says, shocked.

She nods, limp hair falling into her eyes. She smooths it away from her face, hating how dirty it is, and hating how imperfect she is in front of him. He's the only person that has mattered for a long, long time.

"Huh." Edward's eyes are so intense on her that she feels like he's boring holes into her skin. He's hanging on her words. Strangely, being the focus of his attention gives Bella strength instead of weakening her. She continues, determined always to be honest with this man who deserves nothing less.

"My father died when I was seven, I haven't lived there since then."

"And you're now...what, twenty-"

"Twenty four. I have never been back since he died."

Edward processes this, while his eyes continue to scald her skin.

"I'm sorry about your Dad," he encourages quietly.

Bella smiles ruefully. "It was so long ago," she muses, thinking back to how big she thought she was at the time, how grown-up. Her newly retrieved memories of Charles Swan are incredibly precious, and she turns them over and over again in her mind, polishing them so they shine like burnished stars. She doesn't know why or how they've been retained in her brain after her ordeal but she has Edward to thank for being here to appreciate them. She smiles, and it's just for him.

_His eyes were just like mine._

"I'm sorry about your Mom, too. I'm sorry you were awake for all that."

"Yeah, she's a piece of work alright." Bella's smile falters. "It's not the first time it's happened. I was in hospital a few years ago. She didn't even come to see me that time. In all honesty, I haven't thought about her for a long time."

When she looks up at Edward, his head is resting back against the door frame. His intense eyes are closed for once and now it's Bella who can't look away. She devours the contours of his face, the dips and hollows, the etch of his chin and the movement of his Adam's apple, all liberties taken while he's not looking. She lays her eyes on him gently and everywhere, like wishful kisses.

She keeps talking. She owes him that. She owes him her life.

"I ran away from the hospital. I didn't want to end up in another foster home. I just woke up, got out of bed, and... walked out. I had no idea what I was doing. I didn't plan anything. I've been so scared all this time of people looking for that missing kid that I forgot I grew up. I forgot that I wasn't really missing. I feel so stupid..."

Hearing her voice breaking with so much sadness, Edward looks down to see that tears have started a slow descent over the apples of her cheeks. He watches them glimmering like little diamonds on her skin.

She raises her eyes to him, and it's courage he sees, and strength, shining like those diamonds. There is so much he doesn't know, but as he picks those jewels from her cheeks with his thumb, he knows that he wants to know it. He wants to know everything.

He swallows hard, knowing he can't undo the damage of all those years she spent fumbling and scraping an existence out of the gutter, but needing to try anyway.

He sighs, slumping against the wall a little and expels a breathy, "_Shit._"

Collecting his thoughts, he begins again.

"Look... you don't have to go back to that apartment if you don't want to," he says, squeezing his eyes shut, "At least not yet. It hasn't even been cleaned up yet," he says, the groove between his brows is deep like a river of grief.

"It hasn't?" Bella wonders dumbly, thinking _of course it hasn't - there's nobody to clean it but me_. Then, seeing the backpack, her backpack, by the door to her room, she finally catches on.

"You went there," she says, shocked.

He simply nods, looking at her warily.

"Why?"

"As stylish as it is, you can't stay in this forever," he says, motioning at her hospital gown with his chin.

Instinctively, she reaches to the back and pulls the edges together, snorting. _No, definitely not._

"So, what did you-"

"I have no idea," he interrupts her, laughing darkly, "I didn't really want to go nosing through your things, but there was a bag already packed from before. I just grabbed that, the money, and a few handfuls of other stuff."

_From before_ hangs in the air between them like a clanging bell. She's grateful, mortified, embarrassed and a little more in love than she was mere seconds ago. She fights a silly grin, trying hard to stay on track with the conversation while at the same time wondering what he's actually brought back from her apartment.

"Thank you," she says, suddenly desperate for a shower and a change of clothes. A realization hits her then, "I thought you told my Mom that the money was evidence!"

"I had no idea, I just wanted her to leave. I thought if I said that, she'd go," Edward replies, a sad smile on his lovely face.

He was right. Surprisingly, Bella doesn't feel shattered by the reminder that Renee is a mother in name only.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?"

"No," she replies quietly. There's no point in sugar-coating it. The realization that he knows about her life keeps coming at her like a rising tide, again and again. Just when she's not thinking about it, it sneaks up and tries to cut the legs out from under her while she teeters on the shifting sands of shame and embarrassment.

She can't think of anywhere that she could go right now, and is absolutely certain that she doesn't want to step foot into the place where she nearly died.

"Will you... go back?" In silence, they each search inside themselves for the meaning of that question.

"Never." _Never to that life. Never to be that girl in the dark._

Two people of few words look at each other and understand the importance of a weighty silence.

Edward sighs with relief at her assurance, never knowing that the decision was made long before this crisis. No matter what happens now, Bella's mind was made up when she was still _Marie_, never wanting to be the screen for people's fantasy projections again.

"Come with me," Edward implores, his eyes trained on her once more. "Come ride to Forks with me. We'll stay at my parents' place and just... spend some time. I know there's a lot to talk about, but there's time for that. You don't owe me anything. I don't expect anything. I just want to help, and I don't really think you should go back home right now."

Inside her mind, Bella is screaming like a teen at a rock concert and launching herself into Edward's arms. On the outside, she barely risks a tiny, hopeful grin.

"It's hardly home. I've only been there a couple of weeks. Shouldn't your common sense be telling you to run like hell? Even _I _know I look like trouble," she deadpans, only half joking.

"What the hell is common sense?" Edward replies, grinning in earnest, and they stare at each other, smiling like loons.

"Ride with you, huh?"

"Yeah." He smiles, and Bella bites her lip to keep from squealing, her belly dropping through the floor. He's so fucking beautiful when he smiles that it hurts to look at him.

It's all that crazy auburn hair and his quiet, kind generosity; the concern in his eyes while he closes in on her with that lean man's body but a child's genuine, firecracker smile. They're all heart stopping ingredients, but all of them together make her strong and weak, hot and cold, vibrate and freeze while she commits him to memory.

It's insane, this feeling; he's making her crazy.

"I need to sit down," she murmurs, and it's only partly the weakness creeping back into her fatigued muscles.

Edward pushes himself off the door frame and moves out of her way while she pads back into the room, bare feet suddenly feeling the cold.

"What will you tell your parents?" She has heard a part of one conversation, but have there been others to tell them about her?

"I've already told them the basics, just that you were attacked in your apartment and that you didn't want to go back there for a while, just until you really get back on your feet." Reading between the lines and seeing the missing words reflected on his face, Bella understands his meaning- he hasn't exposed her. She's glad beyond words that she won't have to deal with his mother's unavoidable horror at her son being mixed up with an ex-call girl just yet.

"I have a car," she says, and immediately wishes she could take back the words. She doesn't want to drive to Forks. She wants to ride with Edward, clinging to his back in the fresh air, like undergoing a baptism by elements. "But I'd love to ride with you," she quickly amends, and is rewarded with another brilliant smile.

"Are you sure? We can take the car if you-"

"No, I'm sure."

_I'm sure._

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

What does it take to change a life? Is it a crisis? A near-death experience?

Is it love?

Bella wonders about everything that has happened; all the events that have converged to place her in this exact moment in time.

This moment.

Creased black leather held tight between her clenched fists, a cold torrent parting like the seas as she speeds through it with a heavy, awkward weight fastened to her head. Molding herself to Edward's warmth, she cleaves to his back like a limpet buffeted by the world, as they barrel away from the Bainbridge ferry terminal on his motorcycle.

This moment.

The smell of heated metal and windblown leather, the plastic and foam of Edward's spare helmet and the warmth of her own breath as it fogs up the visor, while the scenery grows greener, darker and damper around them. The bulk of Edward's lean torso flexing and pitching against her.

This precious moment.

It's like nothing else she has ever experienced.

No, correction.

It's like being small again, when everything leaves a taste, a smell, a memory etched into your brain.

This moment lasts forever. It's not fleeting like the light of the dying sun they're chasing into the west. Bella lives this moment through the whole day that they spend on the road, trying to memorize everything she's feeling, everything she sees.

Hours later, the moment the machine finally comes to a dead stop beneath them, Bella feels like she has become suspended in time, like they've fallen off the map. The silence is deafening. Clinging to Edward's back no longer feels necessary, and very soon, it starts to feel like an imposition on him.

She could never have imagined the sense of helpless, almost forced participation on the back of a bike. She expected the freedom of rushing past a stationary world, but not that she would be required to anticipate the leaning and cornering of the bike along with its master, loosening her body's natural tendency to stay upright. It's so different than being a completely passive passenger in a car.

Several times at the beginning of their journey, Edward had had to pull over to remind her to '_stop fighting the bike_' and '_lean into the corner_' instead of away from it. Her body eventually understood what he was asking, but even so, she's stiff and sore from flexing and exerting every muscle, trying to stay away from the bitumen. However, as cold and exposed as they've been on the bike, she hasn't missed her car. Not for a second.

Reluctantly, Bella peels her arms away from around his torso, and then unfolds her stiff legs, which have been gripping the seat, and Edward, in vice-like terror. There is glorious silence all around them.

Stepping down from the motorbike makes her feel boneless and altogether too light, like she might blow away with one good puff.

Bella spends a moment just getting her bearings and stretching her calves which feel frozen in a rider's crouched position. Looking around, she realizes that the green canopy above them is not silent at all. Now that the noisy machine isn't overpowering everything, Bella begins to hear the chattering birds, hidden within the rustling emerald umbrella.

The sounds of nature replace the guttural growling of the machine and her ears ring with the absence of it as she tries to undo the strap of her helmet under her chin.

The ancient forest encircles them as they stand on a gravel driveway that feels like it lives in perpetual shadow. In front of them, the verdant green stretches endlessly. Bella turns around to the house, and stares in wonder.

It's love at first sight. Staying here for a couple of weeks suddenly seems like a real vacation, even if it will take every ounce of composure to keep a lid on her shit with Edward in the same house, all day, every day. It will be the sweetest kind of torture.

"Wow," she says, and it's muffled by the cushioned padding around her jaw. Edward turns to her, the leather crackling around his broad shoulders. He shakes his helmet hair out with both hands, and grins at her fumbling fingers as she stands there feeling like a bobble-head doll.

"Here, let me," he murmurs, stepping in close, real close. His long fingers brush the still sensitive skin of her throat as he unties her scarf, flicking the ends over her shoulder, and begins to pull gently on the strap under her jaw. He undoes it easily and removes the helmet, tucking it under his arm. His eyes are on her mouth, as she quietly thanks him.

He lingers right in front of her as moments are born and die around them, in this place where time is a useless indulgence and his nearness is so unnerving.

"No problem. Are you okay? It wasn't too bad, was it?" Edward's voice is gritty and low and she can never have enough of it, rumbling like distant thunder in her ear. He's a force of nature. At some point, an answer is required. She blinks, and breaks the spell.

"No, I'm fine," she says, looking around. _More than fine._

Edward looks to the house and sighs, shaking his head.

"What's wrong?"

"They're still here."

"Your parents?"

"Yeah," he clarifies, pointing to a stately looking silver sedan near the house,"that's my Dad's car. They should have left by now if they were going to make the city before dark."

"Oh." she says weakly, suddenly not ready for this at all.

"I think it's probably Mom, wanting to meet the friend I've brought to stay at her house."

Edward looks down at her and smiles apologetically.

"If I was her, I'd want to know, too." Bella returns a tight smile and wipes her suddenly sweaty palms on her jeans. It's all too easy to imagine a world where she has a right to know everything about Edward's life and his friends.

As Edward begins to unpack their things from the panniers, Bella turns on the spot, amazed eyes taking in the panorama that Edward saw every day while growing up.

The house hugs the hilly forest, as much as the forest grows around the house. The timber walls are less cabin and more architectural perfection- they're warmly lit by recessed lights in the dusky evening, making the house an inviting beacon in the wet, cool woodland. Huge windows open the place up to nature; the shimmering, whispering green reflects in the glass, making it look as though the forest lives inside, too.

It's a kind of fantasy house, nothing she could have imagined when Edward told her he comes from Forks, just like Charlie Swan had. Bella didn't know what to expect to feel here. Nostalgia? Sadness? She feels neither. The memories she has of the place are so faint that they're not memories; they're more like dreams.

She has no idea what's real and what's not.

Bella can recall some of the events that her mind dredged up when she died- she feels in her gut that she died that day- and she clasps some of the little gems to her heart; like the pebble and the shell that she once carried for luck. That one memory is so clear; of her and her Dad outdoors- a moment of love and belonging. It's not really a tangible thing, just a captured, treasured feeling.

The coincidence that they come from the same place is not lost on her- it's huge. Almost as huge as every other damn thing that's happened in the last three weeks. She could go insane trying to unravel all the knots. It's much easier to accept some things at face value for now. Bella is very consciously setting aside problems that she can't get her head around, in favor of wringing every drop of joy out of being alive.

Being with Edward.

Feeling very vulnerable, Bella follows Edward toward the house, the heels of her boots loud and hollow on the porch steps.

It's too late_ not _to be ready, she realizes, as the heavy door swings open, and Edward bends slightly, to place a kiss on the cheek of a woman who must be his mother.

* * *

**A/N:** I would like to thank everyone who is reading and reviewing, it's such a wonderful feeling to be able to talk about my story with you, and to know what you think of it, the good, the bad and the ugly.

A heartfelt thanks to a few lovely people who answered some burning questions on Twitter one night, when all my research fell short of really understanding the US health system. Thanks so much to elizabethan-tx, louisa and also miaokuancha, who is a lady of rare class, a real gem within this fandom, and without. Also, Domysticated, the wonderful, generous person that she is, has written a review of this story which was featured on Indie Fic Pimp, and the link for which is on my profile. And, although I thank her at the top of every chapter, LighStarDust should be congratulated and sent her weight in Tim Tams for putting up with the kind of crap I send her to Beta. She doesn't hate me for my purple, but she does make sure that it's impeccably tailored like Prince's suits.


	20. Valiant

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Twilight, though any original storylines are mine.

**A/N:** A big Thank-You to **LightStarDusting** and **ms-ambrosia** for their Beta work on this story and also to **mpg** and **MissWinkles **for pre-reading. Of course, the urge to tinker once these ladies are done is too great to resist. Any mistakes are undoubtedly mine.

_**Warning:**_ _This story contains subject matter which may be offensive or upsetting for some readers. I will post a warning before each chapter if it contains those mature themes and advise you in advance. Themes explored in this story include prostitution, violence, sometimes graphic or unromantic sex, some drugs and self-harm triggers. Please PM me for more information, I'm happy to answer any questions. No rape._

* * *

Reaching backward, Edward holds out his hand and waits for Bella to step in and take it.

_Will she?_

She looks down at his hand like it's ablaze, but when she finally comes to him, their warm hands fit into each other like they've been doing it for a lifetime. Edward relishes it, this trust, and holds her hand firmly within his own. He smiles as he stands on the threshold of his childhood home, wanting to reassure and encourage her and wishing he knew how.

Tightening his grip on her hand, he introduces her to his mother and watches, enamored, as a pink flush ascends over Bella's face under Esme's inspection. It's quite a spectacular difference from the ashen and deathly image that still burns all too close to the surface whenever he closes his eyes. He's greedy for it, this sign of life blooming on her skin.

Turning back to Esme, Edward's smile falls abruptly at her slightly smug grin, but it's too late to try for nonchalance- they both know he's been caught.

"I thought you'd be gone by now, Mom. Change of plans?" Edward asks tightly.

"Well, you know me... always running late." Esme executes a precision eyebrow lift with flair.

Edward snorts. "Mom, I don't think you've ever been late for anything. Ever."

"Oh, don't worry; we'll be out of your hair in a few minutes, Edward." Pointedly, she turns to Bella as if exasperated with her son."Welcome, Bella! Don't mind my rude child. Come in where it's warm. I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready."

Esme leaves them at the door disappearing into the house, and Edward notices Bella looking a bit lost. Her hand relaxes in his, and he reluctantly lets her go, feeling like he's setting himself adrift.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," she mumbles, rubbing her palms briskly together. Edward wonders if she regrets taking his hand. Perhaps it's all too soon, or perhaps it's just the surprise of meeting his parents today but Bella looks a little shell-shocked.

Starting to shiver in the cool breeze, he struggles with the stupid sticky zipper on his jacket. He finally manages to peel the damn thing off, cold and stiff as it is, and pulls off his boots to leave them on the porch. His socks are so cold that they almost feel wet, and he takes them off too, feeling the familiar texture of the timber under the soles of his feet, stretching and digging his toes into it and loving the freedom of the fresh air on his skin. When he looks up, Bella is still just standing there, staring at him.

"Bella? Are you okay?" he repeats, unnerved by her frozen face but just as he begins to worry, she laughs, shaking her head.

Her voice cracks and her suddenly darkened eyes fire like a salvo over his skin, setting nerves alight before flitting away. "Sorry, I was just... remembering something."

_I didn't imagine that look. Fuck._

Edward can only stare as she toes off her own boots while leaning on the wall and steps softly inside. She looks almost girlish, padding around in her socked feet, silent on the timber floors. He notices that her hair is still twisted into a loose cord and tucked into the back of her sweater to keep it secured while riding.

Riding.

Riding pillion on the back of his Bonneville, hanging on to him so tightly with warm arms, the sweetest pressure of her knees around his hips as she sat astride the black leather of the seat and _God... just stop._

Still, the way she looked _at him_ just now... _Jesus Christ_.

Can it be that she wants him like he wants her? Edward thinks so, but feels guilty, considering the traumatic experience she has just endured. It feels like the wrong time to be making emotional or physical demands of any kind on her, and he is determined to keep his distance unless she makes it plainly clear that she wants it differently. _Jesus... _the fact of what she was doing for a living only weeks ago sits in the back of his mind like a dense little cloud, threatening to spit lightning at him if he prods too much or analyses too closely.

_Let it go,_ his heart chimes, _you can't change it. Let it go_.

_Let it go._

How does she carry all that weight around on her shoulders without sinking into the ground? She's so fucking brave that he feels even more guilt at hating what she once was. Someone without that courage might have been pulverized under the weight of that life, swallowed into the bleakness.

But she's still here, and she's still Bella.

Bella, with the sweetly husky voice and insightful mind, knowing eyes like an old soul and slightly pouty, pink mouth, lush and plump...

_Oh my God, STOP._

_Can't think like that, not now. Maybe not ever._

He remembers so clearly the scent of her skin on the inside of her forearm as he comforted her in hospital. She let him hold her and she was so warm and sweet, and her scent so feminine. If it didn't feel like a small step from 'fascinated' and into 'creepy', he might have rubbed his nose, his face, into that smooth skin while she was sleeping.

_Yeah. Definitely creepy._

Edward suddenly realizes just how hard it's going to be, being so close to her in this house, and yet giving her space and keeping his distance.

Lifting his arms above his head, he grips his elbow and stretches, wincing at the stiffness from both the long ride and knowing he's about to be interrogated. He smiles, wondering how Detective Black would feel if he knew that Edward considers Esme Cullen more frightening than him on almost every level.

As he makes his way toward the kitchen, the mouth watering smell is like a cattle prod to the stomach, and suddenly he is ravenous and Esme's transparent scheming forgotten. When he steps into the kitchen, two plates are already set and a steaming dish rests between them on the table.

"You made dinner?" Edward says with a huge grin on his face.

"I could hardly let you drag poor Bella downtown for a burger at Sully's later, could I?"

"I was going to cook something," he retorts weakly and silently wonders, not for the first time, if she can actually read his mind.

"In that case, you'd have been better off at Sully's, after all."

Edward smirks, knowing she's probably right, and then looks around the kitchen. "Where is Bella?"

"I showed her upstairs to your room," Esme says, sitting down at the kitchen island with a glass of wine and eyeing him calmly. "We were having a nice chat. She'll be back down in a few minutes, I imagine she's hungry too."

Edward nods, trying not to freak out. He doesn't want to think too much about the "little chat" and what it entailed; he's hoping Bella isn't jumping out of the window at this very moment and hightailing it back to Forks.

"I hope you didn't tell her anything about... well, anything. You didn't, did you?"

"Well, not unless you count the snoring, the questionable personal hygiene-"

"Wow, Mom, please stop boosting my morale like that. You'll have to widen doorways so my massive ego can fit through."

"Edward, I said we had a nice chat, not that it was about you. You can relax," she says with a grin.

Edward just shakes his head.

With Bella set up in his old bedroom, the den looks like his room for the duration of their stay. It's been a while since he and Emmett waged Playstation wars down there, but there is still a fold-out bed and a TV, enough to make it livable. He thinks briefly about taking Em's old room, but he could never feel comfortable there. The mountain-biking trophies and Ministry posters are gone, but it's still Em's room, through and through. And then there is the matter of sleeping in Em's bed... no. Just no.

He's aware that by his silence on the subject of taking the liberty of putting Bella in his room, he's confirming his mom's suspicion that he and Bella are sleeping together, and almost tells her that no, they're not. The only thing that stops him is actually wanting it to be true. He doesn't mind his mom thinking that he and Bella will be sharing his old room.

Not at all.

He wants her to know he likes Bella _that _way, as adolescent as that sounds.

Pointing to the table where only two places are set, he asks, "Aren't you eating?"

"Oh, we already ate. This was warming in the oven until you got here."

"Thanks, Mom, this is so great," he says, really meaning it. It's wonderful to come home and be looked after this way, to be spoiled with a home cooked meal. Hoping to avoid her questions, Edward begins to back out of the kitchen as he speaks.

"I'll just go and see if she needs-"

"No, she's fine. We have a few minutes while she freshens up. Would you mind unloading the dishwasher, please?" Esme says, her voice determined and her eyes unwavering on his.

"Sure. Where's Dad?"

"Finishing packing. He'll be down in a moment."

"Ah." He nods, thinking, _Shit. Trapped_.

The silence that ensues isn't so much awkward as loaded. To Edward, it feels like a sprung trebuchet, waiting to flatten him with a two hundred pound rock.

He feels stupid for being so defensive, but can't seem to help it because of the secrets he's keeping. He's sure that Esme can smell them and is about to start circling like a wolf around a wounded deer.

He refuses to rise to the challenge and avoids her eyes, making his way to the dishwasher instead, pretending to look out into the garden while actually observing the scenery in the reflection of the glass. It's almost dark outside, and the dusk blue garden is the perfect backdrop to see himself, and the inside of his mother's kitchen, reflected back to him.

Once he starts, the mundane nature of a simple domestic task takes some of the pressure off. Although the machine supposedly dries the dishes at the end of the cycle, some are inadvertently still damp, with tiny pools trapped in crevices and dips. He wipes them over, preparing little dish mountains on the counter.

Moments pass, and at some point when he looks up, Esme has taken up a magazine. Relieved but still not off the hook, Edward continues with the dishes. He can feel her eyes on him.

"Why don't you just leave these in the dishwasher until they're completely dry, Mom?"

"Because I like them to be dry and put in their place straight away, not hours later," she answers without looking up from her magazine. "That way it's always empty and ready to go." Finally, she strikes.

"Bella seems nice."

"Mhm," Edward hums in agreement, realizing that_ The Es-quisition_ has commenced.

"She's very pretty."

Edward stops lifting a stack of saucers to turn and face his mother. Searching her face, he can find nothing but mild interest in her eyes.

"Yes." _No. Beautiful._

It must echo on his face, because suddenly, Esme is smiling, her eyes alight with excitement.

"Yes," she concurs, but that smile really says '_Thank God_' and '_Finally_' and '_I was worried_'. It's a smile of relief from a mother who thought her child was too neurotic to stake a claim on someone else's heart.

Edward is wary when her smile sobers.

"So, what's her story? It looks like a pretty serious attack, Edward."

"It was pretty serious. She almost died. She was in the hospital a few days."

"Oh my God! What happened?" Esme exclaims, real surprise on her face, for once.

"A guy broke into her apartment and tried to kill her," Edward says, thinking that sticking to the basics should be okay. "That's why I wanted her to come with me; she needed to just get away for a couple of weeks."

"Oh God... well, is she okay? Who was he? Did they get him? Was it a robbery?" Esme fires questions at him, suddenly needing to know everything.

"He was just some guy," he says, thinking back to yesterday's recon in the hospital, when he knew that he couldn't leave without making sure. Seeing with his own eyes. He literally walked the halls for forty-five minutes until he found a corridor with cops in it. Before he lost the nerve, Edward made himself walk straight past them while craning his neck to get a look into the room they guarded.

He caught a glimpse of drips and beeping machines, and a white sheet tented over an entire bed where the remains of a man lay, having breath forced into them through plastic tubes. He had thought he'd feel something emanating from that room, some kind of evil.

There was nothing.

Whatever was in there, it wasn't an evil force to be reckoned with. It was a broken, sick guy who was never going to so much as breathe on his own again.

Edward had suddenly felt the weight of causing another human being to be broken beyond repair.

"That's horrible! Edward, is she alright?"

"Yeah, I think so, Mom. She didn't want to go back to her apartment yet, that's all." He sets a mug down hard on the bench, hoping that the finality of the clang will be enough to deter her from asking any more questions. It's not a light coffee-table conversation to be had with your mother, at least not while they only have a few minutes.

Looking out of the kitchen window, he barely notices that Esme's garden is alive with the yellow and pink Chrysanthemums in full autumn bloom. The colors are so bright, even at this time of the evening when everything begins to draw in and prepare to sleep.

"Edward."

"Hmmh," he replies absently, tufts of bright color reflected in the green of his faraway eyes.

"_Edward._"

He wills himself to refocus, and returns to the room to face his mother's close scrutiny, absently scratching at the quickly healing wound on his neck. The turtleneck of the bulky corded sweater that he wore under his riding leathers covers the thin dressing nicely.

"Is somebody out there looking for her?" The worry in Esme's voice finally clues him in to her reasons for asking.

The cuffs of Edward's jeans whisper over the floor as he pads in bare feet over to his mother and hugs her to him in a reassuring embrace.

"No, Mom. Nobody's coming after her. She's safe. We're both safe." Edward hopes his own words reflect the truth. His brain knows it, but he is yet to really believe it, even after seeing the proof for himself in that hospital room.

"She told me you saved her life," Esme mutters, barely audible against the warmth of her son's sweater. He holds her to him, suddenly hanging on her every word.

"Yeah?"

"She said I should be proud of you."

"She did?" Edward grins.

"Mmhm. She did."

"She's obviously trying to get into my good books by buttering you up."

"Yes, obviously, and here I am telling you about the lovely things she said, furthering her cause..." Esme continues, patting his back lightly in a manner innate in mothers since time immemorial. "I like her."

"Thank God," Edward says dryly.

"Yes, I know, because my approval means so very much to you."

"And always has, Mom."

"Like that time when I thought it was a bad idea for you to buy a motorcycle."

"Yes, just like that," he replies with a smile.

They allow a pause to build in the sliver of air between their embrace. Esme's stilled hand alerts him that she's about to speak.

"Edward, is it over?"

"Yeah, it's over."

Esme's arms tighten around him for a moment, and he kisses her cheek, realizing that she had worried about him putting himself in harm's way, between Bella and a brutal husband, or boyfriend. The truth is so much more complex.

"Are you sure? If you're in trouble..." Esme's words trail off, muffled as she speaks into the wool of his thick sweater.

"No, Mom, it's fine. I'm not in trouble. Everything's fine. It's with the police now. They have the guy, it's all okay."

She sighs deeply, but says nothing else. Hearing Carlisle's footsteps above them, Esme begins to straighten up, brushing her hand over Edward's shoulder as if to remove imaginary fluff. She composes herself and gives him one last, tight hug before stepping away.

"So. As discussed, no orgies please."

Edward stands tall, clicks his bare heels together and holds up two fingers in a Benny Hill salute. "Scout's honor."

She eyes him sceptically. "You were never a Scout, Edward."

"And whose fault is that, Mom?"

Esme's all wide-eyed incredulity, "Well, it wasn't mine! You wouldn't come down from the tree long enough to get in the car!"

"Don't say _'the tree_' like it's just a tree, Mom; you know that his name is Treebeard." Edward leans in conspiratorially and whispers, "And you should keep it down, he can hear you."

That, at last, brings a smile to her face. She loves that tree almost as much as Edward does, and they both know it.

"Mom," Edward begins haltingly, needing just to say one more thing. It feels right to say it, though it takes a few seconds to get the sentiment out just right. Finally, it comes.

"She's really important."

Esme's heart swells with pride for her son. She can see the earnest plea in his eyes. _Accept her _he entreats, and _approve my choice_. She can do nothing less.

Sensing another presence, Edward and Esme both look up to see Bella gliding softly into the kitchen, green socks slippery on the brown timber polished floor. She stands awkward and elusive in the absolute of the white kitchen and Edward's heart clenches at how vulnerable she seems, with that horrible bruise still marring half of her face.

He's anxious on her behalf, meeting his parents like this, but he's beyond grateful that they aren't paying overt attention to Bella's injury and seem to be treating her normally. His Dad's solid footsteps announce his approach and the moment he enters the room, Carlisle extends his hand to Bella, his easy and genuine smile dissipating the heavy mood.

"You must be Bella. Nice to meet you." Carlisle greets her with warmth as though he can't see her discomfort, or her broken face, and Bella's obvious uneasiness is absolutely tangible as she greets him with polite words.

Looking pointedly at Esme, Carlisle continues, "Sorry to greet and run, but we need to hit the road."

"Oh! Yes, of course," Esme exclaims, her attention abruptly pulled back into the room, but she's still looking at_ them_ as they both try to sneak and steal a glance of the other. It's a study in gut wrenching tension.

"Luggage is in the hallway. Ready?" says Carlisle, standing shoulder to shoulder with Edward.

"Ready," Esme answers, fond eyes taking in her two men, so similar and yet so different from one another. They're the same height, but where Carlisle is confident, silver and barrel-chested, Edward is intense, auburn-haired like herself, and lean almost to the point of rangy.

It's Emmett who has inherited Carlisle's solid build, while Edward is spare and lanky, as though he never filled out after his adolescence was through wreaking havoc on his hormones. He has the build of an athlete, just like she does herself. Long, lean muscle and fine boned joints, graceful and loping in motion and a body that is never ever still. Through the eyes of a mother, she sees her own features made more beautiful and noble in their son, her own perceived faults diminished.

When Carlisle shakes their son's hand, Esme holds her breath the way she does when steadying her hand to take a photograph.

_When did this happen? When did he grow up to be this handsome man?_ The tree-climbing nine year old is only a blink away and so clear in her mind, but in his place stands a man whose future she couldn't have predicted for all her greatest hopes and dreams. Above all, she wanted him to be happy, but that is one thing she is yet to really see.

As they drive away from the house that has been their home for close to two decades, Esme looks back to see Edward and Bella on the porch, standing slightly apart in the darkening blue of dusk. They look forlorn, faces dimmed by the rising evening. She would like to see them connect somehow, to see Edward gather her up, this dark and hurt girl.

It may take time, but Esme thinks he'd like to try.

She aches for them both, hoping that when he does, Bella will be ready, and that he will be, too.

**-Ø-Ø-Ø-**

From the greenery of the woodland to the earthy umber of the house, Bella's eyes have never been so assaulted and at the same time so comforted. It has been long time since she has been in nature like this. The windows in Edward's bedroom really are spectacular. Not windows at all, but the eyes of the house, wide open to the forest.

The house that Edward grew up in is sitting on the edge of whimsy. If Oberon himself rode proudly from the woods she would not be entirely shocked.

_I'm already charmed by Love-In-Idleness..._ she thinks, and knows that her newly awakened eyes are full of Edward, though she's looking out at the ancient forest. His presence is in her every thought, behind every blink of her eyes.

Earlier, his mother's inspection was bearable. Bella held up her head and met curious eyes, even with the hateful brand burning hotly on her face. With Edward's hand anchoring her own, she had managed to nod politely and smile, even though her hand tingled in his grasp and her cheeks flourished like sun-heated blooms under Esme's close scrutiny.

Amazingly, there was no disgust at her imperfection, no pity at her harmed face in Esme's expression; there was only the kind of curiosity that made Bella want to consider every word before it left her mouth.

This was the first time she had ever experienced the unique anxiety of "meeting the parents", but she thought she was handling it.

At least until Edward began to unzip his jacket.

As though pressing rewind on her life, Bella watched the day she first saw him in perfect reverse. He was zipping it up back then and riding away from her, but today the breeze flicked his hair around in the same haphazard way, pinking up his cheeks with a brisk chill as he shrugged the jacket from his wide shoulders, pulling the sleeves down over his hands.

When he saw her looking, she had to laugh at the absurdity of being caught staring, and at the startling beauty of seeing Edward's face light up in a huge toothy grin. He looked at her then, like she was a little bit crazy.

It was all she could do to turn away from him and venture into the house before something stupid slipped out of her mouth.

Then, there was the brief conversation she just had with Esme, moments ago in this very room. Bella can see where Edward gets his compassion. She shouldn't be surprised that it runs in his family. It's as strong a trait as the cast of his green eyes.

She isn't sure what she expected to happen, but to be accepted at face value was frightening and liberating at the same time. In one moment, she's optimistic, so hopeful for the things that might be, but in the next breath it hits her that these people have no idea about her, but once they do, these wide-open doors will slam shut in her face.

With her eyes rolling over the giants of the forest, Bella mulls over it, then moves on to explore Edward's old room.

There are many pieces of Edward here and she's immediately struck by a clear sense of his presence even though he hasn't lived here for years.

The many books on the shelves aren't like her collection of ragtag thrift-shop novels; these are (or were) new and in matching editions, sitting crisply aligned, arranged according to size in clusters of subjects. She spends a while just looking through the titles, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle and fingers dancing lightly over the spines.

The rug on the floor isn't some cheap carpet whose purpose is to protect a floor from spills; it is a luxurious and thick shag meant to be stretched out on like a sunbathing cat. Everywhere she looks, there is a simple opulence alien and intimidating to her.

Bella is surrounded by Edward, and everywhere she looks there are traces of him that allow her further into his world. The place is like some kind of shrine to normalcy. A snapshot of family life.

_How the hell am I supposed to relax in here?_

Bella puts her bag gently on the bed and wishes it didn't look so out of place- a dirty, used thing on Edward's lovely fine bedding. Unable to bear it one second longer, she pushes it off to the ground where it lands with a dull thump on the rug. She doesn't want to unpack that bag yet; she knows what she will find: leftovers from her previous life that she has no interest in reabsorbing into the new one.

The bag remains unopened on Edward's rug as she pads quietly out of the room and down the landing.

The house is incredible on the inside, too. Bella has no idea how so much furniture can fit into every room, but it looks like Esme robbed an antique store. Everywhere she looks there's something beautifully eclectic, something made the way things used to be before the world began cutting corners. Nothing looks like it's of the same period, but somehow; it all comes together under the aura of vintage treasure.

It's not the kind of interior that she envisaged looking at the modern architecture from outside- she imagined spare, clean lines, sparse furnishings and polished floors. Well, the floors are there, but they're not making the interior feel cold- everything is made warm by beautiful rugs and comfortable ottomans, elegant wooden cabinets and rich gilt-framed paintings. Bella wonders if everything here was brought home according to Esme's caprice.

She can hear voices, and follows them toward their source, hoping to find the kitchen again.

Bella's thick socks whisper quietly as she descends, unnoticed by either mother or son, and stands rooted to the spot, loving what she sees. Not meaning to spy on them, she nevertheless loiters where she is, undiscovered in the shadow of the hallway.

Edward stands barefoot in the warmth of his mother's kitchen, with a dishcloth tucked into the back pocket of his low-slung jeans. Reaching up to the higher shelves, he puts away the cleaned and dried dishes while Esme pretends to read a magazine at the kitchen island behind him. Pots and pans hang above her head like burnished treasures, while below them, she studies her younger son carefully.

Bella's feet won't move, can't move. She feels the exchanged words like rubber bullets ricocheting off her skin. They're not meant for her and she can't absorb them, as important as they are.

_She's safe. We're both safe._

_She's really important._

She hears footsteps behind her and the sound both saves and damns her; she is forced into revealing herself and interrupting the conversation.

Meeting Edward's father is a brief and surreal moment and she puts it away as a small accomplishment. There are echoes of the father in the son: a very masculine profile, a beautifully turned mouth, the good and thick hair, but the intensity of his eyes and the incredibly catlike grace is all his mother's; Bella can see that now. It comes out of his pores, this elegance of movement, and it's exciting and intimate to recognize its origins.

These people who don't know her at all are being so hospitable, so normal around her, even though she feels blackened by the mask of her attacker.

Moments rush forward and suddenly cases are lifted into the trunk, hands are shaken and parting words exchanged. Then, Edward's parents are in the car, driving away from the house. Before they're even out of eyeshot, Edward's presence is pulling at her, sucking her out of her own space, demanding that she co-inhabit his.

"Hungry?" he says, voice raspy and rough on the breeze.

"God, yes."

"Yeah, me too. C'mon." Edward sweeps his arm across the space between them to collect her on the way, and Bella feels the descent of his arm like a bolt of lightning, though he never actually touches her. Her body jolts at his proximity, and she fights an adrenal instinct to leap away like a gazelle.

Feigning cold, she rubs her arms as she pads briskly into the house.

It's an effort to walk away and not wind her body around his like a vine.

She could live like that, just clinging to Edward with her face turned up to the sun and rain, like the climbing plant over the beautiful mural back at the old apartment.

Edward makes such an effort to be a friend to her, but she doesn't want to be his friend. No matter if she should crash and burn to cinders, she wants to breathe his air.

Helpless to stop any of this, Bella has been marching steadily to this point in time, to this convergence. Nearing this understanding.

She wants to be his lover.

She wants to be his everything.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

They eat in silence, Edward moving confidently around his mother's kitchen to get glasses and wine. The air between them is heavy with anticipation but Bella feels tired, so tired of carrying the weight of anything at all, even this. Soon, her eyes are drooping, and once the meal is done, so is she.

"Are you okay?" he says, seeing that she's fading, and fast.

"I'm sorry, I'm just overwhelmed."

"And tired?" he says, smiling ruefully.

"Yeah, that too." The moment Edward says it, Bella realizes she could pass out for days, like a cat licking her wounds.

"Well, you should sleep."

_I don't want to sleep. I don't want to dream._

It's her first night out of the hospital, but there's no comfort in an unfamiliar bed, a strange house, as welcoming as it is. Suddenly, Edward rises from his seat and comes to her, his bare feet falling lightly on the polished floor. A heatwave rushes her nerves and she glows feverishly as he takes her hand in his.

"Bella?"

Startled and not breathing, she stands hypnotized by his nearness. The heat of his body is like a palpable aura, dynamic and alive, burning her skin while his eyes ignite her insides.

_Does he always run hot like this or is it me dying a little every time he comes near me?_

"Yeah?" It's more breath than word.

"There's time for everything. Just take it easy tonight. Go and get some sleep."

'Okay," she agrees weakly, knowing that it's her own cowardice, not the exhaustion that pushes her. She'd happily stay up all night every night if she could just be in his company, but the unspoken stuff between them is a loaded revolver, slowly rising to her temple. Any moment, any day now, she's going to hear the cocking of that gun.

"Do you have everything you need? Towels?" He motions upstairs toward his room.

"Yeah," Bella squeaks out again, clearing her throat. Her ribs are aching but it has nothing to do with the healing break.

"Okay, well, I'll be here if you need anything, alright?"

She blinks, and realizes that he has steered them both toward the stairs. Tugging on her hand, he leads her up to his room.

"Goodnight, Bella. I'm just downstairs."

Bella steps inside the room backwards, her eyes still on Edward, her hand still enveloped in the warmth of his.

"Goodnight."

He lets her hand slip from his with gentle regret.

Feeling equally disappointed and relieved, Bella closes the door, feeling his presence oozing through the wood.

Outside, he's standing tall with his hands in his pockets, bare feet on the timber landing. His shoulders are slightly rolled in and his hair is a ridiculously defiant bird's nest, glowing like embers in the dimly lit hall, and Bella's insides roll and lurch in exquisite agony.

Finally, she hears him moving away, denim whispering down the stairs and into the house.

Breathing again, intimidation momentarily replaced with awe, she moves about the room, touching this and that, feeling close and further away from Edward at the same time.

Starting to fade, Bella eventually turns off all the lights and crawls onto the low bed, still in her clothes. She immerses herself in the sounds and sensations that Edward must have once experienced, as he lay on this very bed, looking out of this window out at the same eerie woodland outside.

Exhausted but unable to sleep, Bella lies on Edward's beautiful bed in Esme's perfect house and feels like an ugly black speck on a crisp, white sheet.

At last she drifts, her dreams taking pity on her and staying safely on the unremarkable side.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

When she wakes, it's slowly and groggily into late morning.

Rain falls steadily outside now, drumming on the huge windows like a ceaseless stampede. It soothes her wounded spirit like no bright sunshine could. Bella loves listening to the rain fall. She hears nothing but the soft, wet rustling of the forest outside. The house itself is silent.

_Where did he sleep last night?_

Eventually, she can't postpone it any longer- he must think that she's avoiding him. She limps out of bed and to the shower, shedding yesterday's crumpled clothes onto the bathroom floor in a little pile. Feeling like a guest, she doesn't want to make a mess for anyone, even though there's nobody there to judge her.

The bag Edward retrieved from her apartment is on the floor at the foot of the bed where she left it.

She looks at it, and it looks at her, and she shakes her head, wondering why a bag has such control over her. Steadying herself, she takes the bull and wrangles it by the horns, opening the zipper to see what Edward grabbed for her.

At first, she smiles, seeing handfuls of clothes that he must have snatched up straight from her bedside drawers, there's underwear and slips still basically in the same order as she folded them, he obviously wasn't really discriminate in the things he took.

"Oh God, yes," she sighs in relief seeing a few t-shirts and a pair of clean jeans, but stops in her tracks once at the bottom of the bag.

Here are the leftovers she feared seeing, the things that she threw in there herself before... _before_. There is money, two thick folds of it. Various toiletries and bottles from the bathroom; some of which she doesn't even use, all reflecting perfectly the frazzled state of her mind at the time. It's like a time capsule, taking Bella back to a night that will always live in her mind, though some details may be mercifully forgotten.

_The Name of the Rose_ is there, among the detritus of her old life. She's at a loss to know if she put it there or not, but there are tears in her eyes as she remembers sitting against the sun-warmed brick of her mural, holding this book like a friend in her hands.

The last time she held it, she was thinking of the Rider and of the kind of life that seemed beyond reach.

Hugging the book to her chest, the chasm of Bella's life suddenly doesn't look so cavernous, or so empty, because if she dares to try for the things she wants, they're all within her grasp.

Through some miracle, the universe is allowing all this.

Her heart mushrooms like a bomb in her chest.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Finally, liquid warmth chases the fatigue from her bones as she stands limp under the shower, not thinking, just feeling.

Fading, yellowing bruises are made shiny by the water, sleek in the downpour. She looks at herself and sees through them to the strength and endurance of her healing body which has survived so much.

The bruises will fade with time while she only grows brighter; it's as though she were absorbing them and photosynthesizing them into energy. What didn't kill her is making her stronger.

It's surreal that she's standing under Edward's shower, in the house of his parents. If someone had predicted this last week, she would have laughed at them hysterically.

She sighs and reluctantly turns off the water, the heat of which has made her skin feel alive and bursting with color. This spaciousness and inviting aura are so different to the clinical feel of the hospital bathroom. It would be impossible not to appreciate it, even if it wasn't Edward's.

A puff of steam precedes her as she steps out of the shower into the warmed air and dries herself slowly, her body still fragile. Even the towels here are luxurious, soft and thick like fluffy blankets.

Still hot from the shower, she quickly slips on a black tank and panties from her bag, and finds herself back in Edward's old room, looking around with refreshed eyes.

His childhood bedroom is bright and open even in the overcast weather, and she immediately imagines a lanky young Edward lying on his stomach on the thick rug, homework open but untouched in front of him, staring off into the dense, green forest. It's an amazing room in an equally amazing house- allowing nature right inside the walls. The windows are so big that they're basically invisible and the fresh, cool feel of the forest seeps right into the room, though it's warm inside.

Trophies and framed certificates for his musical accomplishments make Bella shake her head in wonder as she begins to realize what a huge part of his life it must be. She had no idea, he was quite offhand when he mentioned playing instruments, and of course, she has never seen him play, though she has suspicions that it was his playing she listened to... before.

He certainly hasn't picked up an instrument since, and his left arm is still bandaged. Maybe he can't play. She hasn't asked him, scared that he might voice what he must be thinking; that she is responsible for his injury and inability to play the music he loves.

She sits quietly on the black leather couch and sinks her toes into the thick pile of the rug, overwhelmed by this lovely room, and everything in it. Guilt at dislodging Edward from his own space returns in a wave and if it were not for his own insistence that she stay here, she would have refused. Bella finds herself thinking that she would happily do anything Edward wants her to do.

Looking around the room, Bella's eyes fall on the desk. She senses Edward in the general disarray: slightly chaotic and scattered, an organically evolving mind. There are books, notes, pencils and paper lying haphazardly over the entire desk and it seems to be the only place in the whole room where she can feel him, and see him in her mind's eye, except perhaps on that rug.

With fingers twined in her wet hair, Bella stills when she notices the scissors on the desk.

They're just plain steel scissors, but before the idea has even fully formed in her mind, Bella is up off the leather couch and walking briskly to the desk, making a beeline for the scissors.

Behind her, the cushion soundlessly replaces her body mass with air, as though she were never there.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks again for reading. I'm astonished at the support you're sending my way, you lovely people who have the time to review.

To the lurkers and the reviewers who have disabled their PMs, I can't thank you personally, but I do appreciate you reading. Thank you!

Twenty one is my lucky number, so there will be one more chapter to complete this story.

Love-In-Idleness - A reference to A Midsummer Night's Dream. When dripped into someone's eyes, the juice of the magical purple Love-In-Idleness flower causes that individual to fall in love with the next person they see. Also a nod to the magical, irreverent and fantastical tale woven by one of the fey fairy folk, Twanza. She's made of nice words.


	21. Muse

**A/N: Thank You **to **LightStarDusting, ****ms-ambrosia, ****mpg** and **MissWinkles **for... pretty much everything. Thank you also to my long-suffering WC girls for putting up with my neurosis.

Thank you, gracious reader, for the time you've given me. I hope you've enjoyed my story. I've loved writing it.

I am writing an outtake for **Fandom for Texas**.

A donation will get you a copy of the compilation, see here for more details: http : / texasfires . ysar . info/ (remove all spaces).

Eventually, the outtake will be posted as another chapter to the Outtakes story- add it to your alerts if you are so inclined and would like to read it down the track.

Perhaps if you've gotten this far, you might choose to let me know what you thought, overall.

Any words are welcome.

* * *

Edward takes the stairs three and four at a time, and still it's not fast enough to get to Bella.

She's screaming like the world's ending, a drawn-out wail full of anguish and pain. She needs him, and _fuck_, he's running, leaping to the top of the stairs.

His bare feet slide on the landing and he crashes awkwardly into the balustrade at the top of the stairs, recoiling from the pain in his hip.

He dreads with his whole being whatever evil has found her, in what he thought was the safety of his room. Irrationally, he imagines the guy from her apartment following them here after some kind of a miraculous recovery, though it's completely ridiculous.

Finally, he gets his feet under him and races on toward Bella's screams. Sliding on the waxed floor, Edward crashes into the door of his bedroom, which bursts inward from the impact, and he's still running to the en suite and to Bella.

The sight that greets him is at once worse than he dreaded and better than he hoped from the intensity of her distress.

Sitting with legs splayed awkwardly on the floor, dressed only in a black tank and underwear, Bella hacks at her hair with a pair of glinting scissors. She yanks great chunks of it with her clawed hand as though to rip it from her head.

"Get it off, get off me, get it off, off, OFF! Get off me, get it off me," she chants, hiccupping and yowling, keening and yelping through her tears. She saws at her beautiful hair like it's living, writhing snakes attacking her.

Most of it is already gone and limp on the floor in dark wispy puddles, but still she slashes and carves at it, not even looking at what she's doing. Her face is beet red and shiny wet from the effort and the tears.

Edward has never seen a more desperate act, and he stands rooted to the tiled floor, just senselessly gaping at her. Suddenly realizing that she might hurt herself, he raises his hands in a calming gesture and approaches her slowly, like she's a frantic animal and he, the tamer.

The screams subside as he nears but the desperate panic in her eyes continues right along with the metallic shearing until he finally, gently removes them from her shaking hand. He tosses them out of their reach, scared that she's not done, that she wants to bleed herself dry over this trauma she has survived already. He takes both wrists into his hands and folds her arms in, hugging her closely, disarming her.

"Don't let go, don't let go, don't let me go," she cries, clutching at him, grabbing blindly at whatever skin she can reach. Even if she begged him to, he wouldn't let go of her right now.

He's cooing and shushing, rubbing her arms and back with a fistful of her hair in his hand and he's not even sure if it's still connected to her head or if it's a tuft of the chopped remains from the floor. They're both covered in it, it's all over Bella like black angel-hair confetti and stuck to Edward's jeans in big dark clumps.

Pulling and lifting, he settles her on his lap, holding her like a precious child as she howls into his neck, digging her nails into his skin. He's looking at the damage Bella did to her hair but he's not even seeing it. He is just trying to soothe her somehow, though he doesn't know what to do.

He does the only thing he can.

On the floor of his bathroom strewn with the remains of a cataclysm, he holds Bella close to his heart while she cries herself out.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

"Can you stand?"

Nothing.

"I'm going to lift you back into the shower, okay? Wash it all off you."

There is no acknowledgement, but Edward goes ahead as if she has agreed. Gently but purposefully, he half guides and half lifts Bella into the shower again once the water is just right.

Not trusting her stability, he's half in there with her, adjusting the shower head and brushing stray hair from her back and her arms. She's still and docile now, pliant in his arms, her body still hiccupping with leftover tremors.

He tries hard not to see the things that his eyes are greedy for, but he can't help it. Even if he turned away now, it's too late- his mind's eye would still resonate with the glistening water on her pale skin and her hacked up hair stuck to her face and neck like waterborne black ribbons.

He would still be seeing her sodden black tank top, one thin strap sliding from her shoulder with the force of the shower, a valley created in the wetly clinging neckline anchored on two firm and perfect nipples. He might be seeing that sight forever.

_Jesus Christ._

Her scent is familiar but so new at the same time and he can never have enough, never get close enough; he knows that now.

Warmed by the shower, her skin glows pink and fragrant, and it's killing his resolve to let her be, to let her heal.

He makes himself take his hands off her.

Making sure she's firm on her feet, he forces his eyes away from dangerous things and looks at the tracheotomy scar instead, a puckered, shiny pink crescent moon between her clavicles, but even that blemish looks enticing; a lure.

_Come closer_, it whispers, _lay down your head._

_Stop fighting._

He wants her so bad he can almost taste her.

Oblivious to his struggle, Bella stands under the hot jets with her underwear on, looking as fragile as a porcelain doll. Water courses like tears over the bruise on her face, and stray strands of butchered hair wash away like sins.

Edward tries to curb his greed but his eyes are cataloging her, storing her away in the safest places inside himself. She's startling and beautiful, and his hands shake, aching to see how she fits inside them with her perfect pink skin over curved, sleek softness. Hands that want to unfurl over her breasts clench into fists at his sides instead.

He grits his teeth and kneels on the floor, beginning to clean up the debris.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

"Do I have something on my face?"

"Huh?"

"Bella. Do I have something on my face?"

"What?"

Mortified, Bella blinks rapidly and realizes that she has been staring at Edward's mouth as he eats. Looking down, she notices the cutlery resting lightly over his plate. He's done. How long has she been staring at him?

_Oh my God, I'm such an idiot._

For the umpteenth time, she touches her new hair. Her head feels about ten pounds, hell, _ten years_ lighter.

Earlier, Bella observed him silently as he combed out the lifeless remains of what almost became her noose. A little snip here and there and chunks of it plopped heavily to the floor around them in black swathes, still wet from the shower and limp like dead eels.

Edward licked his lips and surveyed his handiwork while she sat on the high kitchen stool he had fetched, swathed in a fluffy, cream-colored towel. Underneath it, long, pale legs hung slackly almost to the ground.

"It's a little bit Sex Pistols, but I like it," he had joked, trying to lighten her up, snip-snip-snipping away. She said nothing, just watching him. He was being so careful, and not just in his attempt to take the edge off her awful butchery.

"Leave it like this," she had told him, voice cracked but determined.

"It's still uneven-"

"I like it."

"Yeah?" He was sceptical.

"It kind of looks like I fell under a lawnmower."

Edward had stilled completely, not knowing what reaction he was supposed to have, then abruptly, both of them had succumbed to a fit of giggles that descended into big barking guffaws. They laughed until tears streamed down their faces and both their bodies lost the careful stiffness.

She's calm now, so calm that she's almost catatonic. The violent catharsis, so like the one she endured alone in a hotel room a lifetime ago, has numbed her inside. Strangely, though her soul feels bathed in a soporific, her brain is on, alight like a bulb. In the fallout, she can see everything clearly even if she can't feel it. She has become her own clinician.

She hardly remembers picking up those scissors. Edward probably thinks that she's broken inside, a conquered Samson.

He'd be shocked if he knew that within, Bella's more alive than she's ever been.

She's alive, and this is proof.

This is her, controlling the thing that almost killed her.

This is Bella taking charge.

Now here they sit across from each other, and Edward smiles uncertainly and works flexing hands over imaginary octaves, unaware of Bella's internal epiphany. She used to think that he always fidgeted, but now she realizes that he's playing silent music over any available surface, all the time. It's astounding to think that in his head there is always music.

He clears his throat. "Can I ask you some questions? You can say no; I won't mind."

"Go ahead." Bella's voice sounds so even and calm and her hand finds itself in her new hair again. Inside it's bile rising and nausea._ Shouldn't have eaten. Rib hurts. Please God, don't let him ask the hard ones._

"Do you know where you lived here in Forks?" Edward gestures outside with a subtle tilt of his auburn head.

She sighs, hanging her head in quiet relief, hands worrying each other mercilessly over the remains of her meal.

"No. I mean, I remember certain things but nothing all that concrete. No address or anything." She remembers a house, dust motes floating in a beam of rare sunlight in a bright kitchen. Yellow. Laughter. A plastic dog with a concertina belly and... Mister Biscuits, the little monkey, sitting propped up on a crocheted apple green cushion. These are the things she has brought with her. Little colorful treasures.

"Maybe we could look into it while we're here. See if we can find out where you lived."

"Maybe," she says quietly, not sure how to feel about his offer. She stores it away to think about later.

"But you must have some records?"

"Not even my birth certificate," she scoffs. "I've got nothing." She realizes that this is true for much more than personal documents to prove her identity and to mark the passing of time. She ran from herself in so many ways. Bella lifts the glass of red wine that Edward poured for her and nurses it. It's still full but now as warm as her own hands.

"What happened when your Dad died?"

_Stick to the facts, _Bella reminds herself, while she tries to clamp down on the memories which even she isn't ready to unearth.

"I went to an orphanage. I don't know how long I was there. A few months, maybe."

"And then a foster home?"

"Yeah, a few," Bella admits ruefully.

"You told me that you'd been in hospital before... will you tell me what happened?"

"It's not pretty, Edward. You don't have to know these things." Bella can't even look him in the eye, but his voice doesn't waver when he answers.

"If you want to tell me, then I want to know."

_No regrets_, she reminds herself and sees only sincerity in his wide, serious eyes.

"It was a heroin overdose."

She pauses, and watches as Edward picks up his fork again and starts to build little left-over mashed potato hills on his plate. She's afraid to smile at his cute whimsy.

"You were a user?"

"Not really," she snorts, knowing that she should elaborate rather than making him ask for details, but still hopeful that he'll let her skip over them.

Should have known better by now.

"What do you mean, not really?"

"I was hanging with this bunch of people and it's just... what they all did. I snorted it a few times at first, except this one time. So lame, right? I didn't even shoot it myself. Someone cooked it and-" Bella pauses, drawing a harsh breath.

_They cooked it, tied off my arm, sat on me to keep me still and punched that needle into my arm so hard I thought it'd come out the other side_.

They all thought that her resistance was hilarious. Until her eyes rolled back into her head and her heart slowed to a stutter so faint that they thought she'd gone down the wrong rabbit hole. After that, it wasn't so hilarious any more.

She finds Edward's eyes to be intensely focused on her. Despite a thorough search, she finds no disgust in them, only that quiet and disconcerting intensity. The darkness that tints his every expression.

"I'm not a junkie, Edward, I wasn't. Not ever. I mean, not that it makes it any better, but-"

"Bella, relax! I believe you. I'm not gonna judge you for something that happened to you when you were seventeen!" He sighs and scrubs his face, considering. " Are you up to telling me what happened next?"

Under the table, Bella's hands twist and torment each other restlessly.

"They didn't give me much. I mean, what junkie shares their stash, right? But I'd never had it like that before and it just completely wiped me out. One minute I was there and the next I'm in hospital... apparently they didn't even take me in, they just dumped me out the front and drove off. Good friends, huh?"

"Yeah, great people." Edward's jaw is clenched so tight that the skin ripples with tension.

"I never saw any of them again. For all they know, I'm dead." Bella pauses and looks up into Edward's eyes, unflinching, facing her truth.

She's definitely not ready to tell him that she lived in fear of HIV for weeks afterward, never knowing if they even used a clean needle. There's no way she's telling him that. He looks nauseated as it is, and just the memory makes her feel disgusting.

He exhales heavily. "So, what happened? You said that you just walked out of the hospital? Where did you go?"

"I didn't want to go back to the home. I knew they'd found my mom but she didn't want to have anything to do with me, so they were sending me back into foster care. I just couldn't do it. Something snapped inside. I just got up and walked out into the street," she says quietly, finally looking at Edward.

"You know, for the longest time I couldn't even take an Advil. I was scared of any drugs! Isn't that ridiculous?"

Edward's breathing deeply through his nose and staring at the creamy potato mountains on his plate.

_Is this it? Is this the moment that he decides this is a mistake?_

Bella has stilled completely, her body frozen into immobility while she waits on his reaction.

"I should be dead, Edward, even if it was an accident. But this time... If it wasn't for you, I _would_ be dead."

He lowers his head like he's scared she's about to thank him, which immediately makes her want to do it.

"I mean it, Edward. You and I both know what he would have-"

"Yeah... about that," he interrupts huskily. "You're probably wondering how that happened. It's not like I knew what was going on or that you were being watched, or even where you lived for that matter..." Edward presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and sighs. "Look, I was in that tree hoping to see you. Well, not _you_ exactly. I didn't know it was you. I just thought I had a neighbor who liked to dress up. Not that I climbed up there specifically to spy on her. You. _Fuck!_"

Bella stares and waits for him to continue, her mind a dead silence.

"It was a pretty big fluke. I went up there to clear my head. I used to do that here, as a kid, I would just climb until I couldn't hear anyone else's bullshit, you know? It always seemed so noisy here with Emmett and Dad and football or whatever they were watching on TV. Always sports."

Bella's eyes follow Edward's out into the garden where night has finally fallen. Even though the view is a reflection of the kitchen, she can still see the gentle sway of black tree silhouettes against the dark skies. Even though it's black on black, the movement is calming.

"It was easier to find peace up there."

"I can imagine it would be." She thinks back to how she would find peace on the back porch of Shelly Cope's house at night, wishing that a long-lost relative would someday realize that a horrible mistake had been made. She smiles sadly, remembering the library book that helped her obscure her reality as she imagined herself the embodiment of Sarah Crewe.

"So I need to come clean and tell you that after you left Blondie's that day, I needed something to help me find my peace." He's still not looking at her, but Bella couldn't look away from him if she tried.

"I went home and I climbed that tree, feeling pretty sorry for myself." He snorts and shakes his head before continuing. "Then I remembered one time a few days before when I was up there and I saw this woman leaning out of the window, and I kept climbing hoping to see her again."

Bella knows the night he means, remembers almost crawling into her corset and mask like a desperate snake wanting to cram itself back into the old skin. She remembers looking out the window that night.

"You were... in the tree?"

"Pretty sick, right?" He snorts.

Bella can't believe he's feeling bad about this. Sure, it's a little strange, but...if he hadn't been there, she wouldn't be here now. Swallowing her insecurity, she straightens.

"No, what's sick is that I gave you the impression that I didn't want to date you. That was bullshit."

"Really?" He looks at her sideways, grinning at her disarming admission.

"I would have given my spleen," she continues, spurred on by his grin. "No, hang on, something I need. I would have totally given my arm to go out with you." Bella's eyes are smiling, but her mouth is tense.

"Not your arm. I like your arms."

"My leg then."

"Most definitely not your leg," he murmurs.

Now, they're both grinning like idiots.

"You want me to stop?" Bella teases.

"For the sake of propriety, yes. I like pretty much everything you might give."

If she drilled her eyes into him any harder, Bella's eyes would be lasers, setting Edward on fire.

"Even now?" _After everything? Even with everything you know?_

"Yep." Edward returns her gaze frankly. Unflinching in his reply.

Bella's heart is in her throat while her hands twine endlessly over each other under the table. There is no other way to take that except as a declaration.

"Also, you don't have to give anything. Just, you know, an affirmative answer." Edward clarifies.

"Well it's pretty much a given since I'm here at your parents' house with you, right?"

"Nothing's a given in this world, Bella."

"Right. Well, I'd better put you out of your misery then. You have my affirmative answer."

Edward smiles so big that he makes the lights dim. Then, he clears his throat, and says, "I take antidepressants."

Bella stares, open-mouthed. "What?"

"And I smoke pot." Edward shrugs, smiling crookedly. "I just thought, as long as we're sharing."

"Antidepressants?"

"Yeah. All the cool kids are doing it."

Bella starts to giggle and Edward's skin rises in goose bumps at the wonderful sound, his mouth stretching in a big grin.

"And pot."

"Yeah. Sometimes. It's nice. I like the mellow." Edward's sheepish grin makes him look rueful. "Does that bother you?"

Bella begins to laugh, shaking her head. _As if_. As if anything he could do or say would make her love him less violently, or with less abandon. And then, there are the adorable mashed potato hills...

She sobers. "I called Sparky earlier."

"Oh yeah?"

"I was wondering, would it be okay for them to come up here in a couple of days? They can drive up on Friday night, maybe."

"Yeah, it's fine. It'll be great for you guys to have some time."

"She said they can stay in town."

"That's probably good, we don't want to incur the wrath of Esme Cullen."

"No, I definitely want her on my side," Bella quips, nodding sagely.

"Oh, I think she's already on your side, Bella."

"Really?" Now it's Bella's turn for the big sunshine smile.

"Yeah. She said she likes you."

They don't look at each other through the silence that ensues, but there are small smiles beneath the awkwardness, as they push long-cold food around on their plates, talking about everything and nothing now that all the secrets are fair game.

Later, when she climbs the stairs, he holds her hand like he still wants to and it's enough to give her faith in humanity.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

As the days unfold, she feels his eyes on her, and he's not hiding it well anymore.

Maybe he doesn't want to.

That thought warms her at night as she cocoons herself in Esme's beautiful linen.

Sometimes, Bella's skin prickles under her bulky autumn clothes, the tell-tale indication that Edward's watching her. She feels it along the curve of her shoulder, like the tingle of static making the fine hairs stand up in concert with her stomach clenching.

Sometimes, he's the one to stiffen and still, turning toward her slightly as if to check her in the periphery, and she knows that he feels her eyes the way she feels his. His most mundane, most banal actions make her chest feel like it's imploding, but she's becoming increasingly aware of Edward's glances too, the ones he doesn't try so hard to hide now. The incendiary ones.

A strange, empyrean atmosphere hangs over the entire house, and it feels to Bella like they've ceased to live in the real world. There is only Edward and herself in his parents' house, and beyond the doors, the world is a figment of their imagination; it simply doesn't exist.

They float, watching each other closely for signs of reciprocated attraction, the heat between them flashing like solar flares at every accidental-on-purpose touch, every overlong glance.

And they talk, these people of few words, they talk with their eyes as much as their mouths, ravenous for every piece of the other's story.

Esme's garden is beautiful at this time of year. Bella finds herself there in the afternoons, giving herself, and Edward, some space. Two days have passed since they arrived, and though they've spent much of them in each other's company, she needs these moments alone. For a solitary creature, it's surreal to be with someone else all day and night, eating and talking in such close proximity.

Bella thinks that Edward feels the same way.

She kneels among the low beds with her fingers in the dirt, feeling small under the boundless sky, and liking it for a change.

She feels lighter without all that hair to weigh her down and colder, too, but somehow safer. Somehow more _there_.

Sometimes, she can see the moon like a ghost in daytime, hanging above the clouds. She lies on the ground with grass under her shoulders and marvels at how closing her eyes for a few short moments finds that daytime moon rolling across the sky.

She feels like that moon sometimes, like her whole life until now has been the blink of an eye.

Even here in the garden, she feels Edward's magnet pulling at her insides, even when she's the one to walk out of the house and into the overcast afternoon, needing some solitude.

Sometimes she hears music. He plays a guitar, but only when she's outside, and Bella knows it's because he's exercising his hands and his injured arm. He's getting better each time- she can tell he's surer by the increasing strength of the cords he plays, and the better projection of sound.

When they eat, she looks at the calluses on his fingers, wondering at their texture on her own skin, the roughness against soft down at the nape of her neck or against other, slicker skin.

Sometimes he sings too, and Bella's happiness has never been simpler to achieve; she lays in the grass among swaying autumn color and lets her eyes reflect the sky. Even the rain doesn't dampen her with its sudden appearance. Bella's learning that it's a constant in Forks, and she likes it.

Friday arrives without fanfare and settles around them both in their newfound routine. Bella's heart is in her throat as she steps into the white kitchen and finds a dishevelled Edward poking around in the pantry. His outrageous thatch of bed hair glows in a bright sliver of the morning sun and a threadbare t-shirt hangs from his shoulders in perfect folds as he reaches for the high shelf.

Bella can't tear her eyes away from his waist, where secret skin is revealed between his shirt and faded jeans. The sinuous lines of his back are completely masculine, pale skin so neat over spare musculature. A little dark freckle lives just above the waistband of his jeans, and the thought of dimples low on his narrow hips is enough to flush her skin tomato red.

Drawn forward by the pull in her gut, she approaches slowly so as not to startle him and just breathes him in. He is unrestrained laughter and pollen on the wind, the rare sun's reflection on the Sol Duc and the Early Blue Violet growing along its banks. He is all the things she didn't know she was missing in her life until he happened upon it.

He finds her standing there with awe on her face and grins, handing her the Special K.

Feeling like her life depends on the next few moments, Bella takes the box and sets it down on the bench, never taking her eyes off him. She takes his hand carefully in both of her own and explores something real with reborn fingers.

She traces the Fate line to the Girdle of Venus and rubs over the calluses on his fingers. Her fingers loop around Edward's knuckles, and she presses the heel of his palm with her thumb. They both watch her fingers follow the lines and roughness with such care, softly, then firmly as she grows surer.

"Thanks, Edward." Bella murmurs lowly, not really sure what she's thanking him for. The cereal? The kindness he has shown her?

Her very life?

She releases Edward's hand and steps away with fire still creeping under her skin, elated at making a declaration of her own. He looks awed; they must make a pair right now with matching looks of shock on their faces.

This is the first time she has initiated this kind of tender contact with him, and it's not lost on either of them that things must move forward now.

They stand at the precipice.

When they step away from each other, the delicious anticipation flutters in both their bellies.

It's only a matter of time.

The right time.

Later, Edward watches Bella rise from among the chrysanthemums, twisting to dust herself off. He spies Jasper's car, color flashing between the trees and carving its way through the forest road. The doors open and Bella secures her hands in the back pockets of her jeans but Mary Alice isn't having it; she comes to her with her arms outstretched and just gathers her up, the rolled-up cuffs of her denim jacket so wide around slim wrists.

They hug, awkwardly at first, then with meaning. Edward smiles, watching them leave Jasper to unload a couple of backpacks from the trunk.

He passes them in the hall on the way to help his friend, and there aren't any easy words. No girlish giggles and chatty banter. They both feel the gravity, it seems. Bella shoots him a look of trepidation and he feels fingers brushing his arm as she breezes past, setting tingling trails on his skin that throb long after she's gone.

Leaving the men to their own palaver, they straight away ensconce themselves in the cocoon of Edward's old room, crawl onto the bed and sit talking with their heads close together like teenage girls.

Edward finds them like that hours later, when he knocks lightly and receives no answer. Wanting them to have their pizza hot and fresh, he carefully opens the door and finds them on the bed. Mary Alice has sunk into the piled-up pillows with Bella's sleeping head in her lap, and she's gently stroking and smoothing Bella's crazy new punk hair.

Mary Alice acknowledges him with a small, kind smile, then turns back to her study of the woodland through the window.

They look peaceful. Warm.

Feeling like a thief, he closes the door and steals away with that image, making his ribcage feel too small for the feeling exploding within.

God knows, she needs this in her life.

When they do eventually come down, night has fallen and both women have _that_ look about them, that sad, unburdened look. They look lighter for having each other and heavier for the words they've exchanged.

Later, with Mary Alice and Jasper dozing on the couch and the TV projecting color and light onto their faces, Edward looks for Bella and finds her in the kitchen, sitting at the island with a laptop open in front of her. Japanese cherry blossoms reach their elegantly turned fingers to caress the cover. It must be Mary Alice's.

Bella looks up, her eyes deep and warmed by the bronze and copper of the pots and pans hanging above her.

Wordlessly, she turns the laptop toward him.

Edward, worried now, pads closer to the island and scans the page. It's Google Maps, a house on a street like any other house, on any other street.

He leans in closer and reads the address; 775 K Street, Forks, WA.

"I feel like I have... unfinished business. I've had this feeling before, I guess, but I think I know what it is now."

Looking up, he finds Bella's sad eyes trained on the picture of the little white house on the screen.

"Edward, I was wondering if you'd take me for a ride tomorrow."

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

The old Swan house isn't vacant, but it is still a cenotaph, shades from the before-life lingering under the eaves. It's much smaller than she thought, though her memories are vague at best.

Just feelings, really.

Clinging to Edward's back, Bella lays her cheek on his shoulder blade and grips his jacket harder. The leather is cold but fragrant under her skin, a musky version of Edward's own masculine scent. She can feel the cords of muscle underneath, flexing and moving as he takes off his helmet and resettles his body weight to kick down the stand. He doesn't get off, staying within her embrace with his long legs braced on either side of the motorcycle.

"Do you want to go up?" Edward asks, his voice rough on the breeze.

"I don't know," she mutters under her breath, unmoving.

The house is in good repair, with signs of occupancy: a child's bicycle rests against the side and several pairs of shoes and boots lie strewn on the porch.

The building itself is not much to look at, though it's one of the few houses in Forks with a second story. The setting, however, makes it beautiful, transcending the wood and metal, concrete and glass. The woodland is right there in the backyard, lush and green, a presence bigger than man. Everything reflects the sheen of rain which fell earlier in the morning, making the air heavy with the scent of the local flora and giving off an aura of freshness and life.

Bella tries hard to sift through her memories, but comes up blank. She doesn't really remember the house, which is probably to do with the fact that as a small child, she never looked at it like this, outside and from a little distance. Inside, it might be a different story. There might still be yellow cabinets in the kitchen, though so many years later, this is unlikely. They were dated back then, let alone now, when white and stainless steel are the new black.

There might be more memories waiting inside, but they're not hers- they're this other family's. All the brief snippets, the moments that she has been able to keep, they don't live in this house.

They live in her past, and in Bella herself.

There is nothing in this house for her.

"No, I'm done. Just wanted to see it, I guess," Bella murmurs against Edward's back, not sure if he can hear her. For the first time, she wonders what happened to all of Charles Swan's possessions. Were they sold? Stored somewhere? How would one find that out?

She tries to focus on the real and the tangible while standing on the precipice of the unknown world of ghosts past.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

A leftover Memorial Day flag flaps and cracks in the stiff wind, a synthetic movement among the lovely greenery that weaves between the stones.

Such austere markers for entire lives lived.

Bella meanders between the graves, reading the stones and plaques and feeling the weight of expectations dissipate. Nothing really matters here.

There is no time.

There is no failure.

Every single one of these people have endured the most they ever will.

The air here feels omniscient and remote. Distant from human concerns.

Nobody here cares about her past or future. Nobody here looks down on her.

She knows where to go- the Forks Cemetery website has a name search function, which returns a gravesite location; Charles Swan rests here on the plain, under a spruce taller than three stories.

She approaches slowly with her eyes trained on the little plaques that pepper the ground here, looking for the right one.

It's small, no bigger than a shoe box.

A landscape is acid etched into the stone; tall, straight trees stand immortal, cut in on either side of the inscription.

In the center, words are engraved into the granite: _Charles Christopher Swan, 1964-1994_.

No _Beloved Father_ or _Son of Geoffrey and Helen_. No _Resting under wings of Angels_.

No unnecessary sentiment for the young, tragic Chief of Police; old enough to keenly feel his responsibilities, but young enough not to fear his mortality.

Bella stares at the plaque, willing herself to understand it. She stares until the letters make no sense. She stares until she can't read them anymore.

"You're not here either, are you?" She whispers into the void. Wind stings her eyes, and she closes them, clenching her fists.

_Crisp navy uniform against white satin padding. Sprigs of lavender tucked between bloodless, clasped fingers. Mister Biscuits hanging limply from her hand and Daddy doesn't smell right. Why doesn't he move?_

The memory stabs her in the chest like a metal spike, and she folds to the ground, kneeling at her father's grave.

"You're not here, Daddy," she says, sighing. It's not a question anymore.

The granite plaque feels ice cold under her fingertips, and she traces the smooth stone beneath the lettering. A rich green moss has begun to claim the corners, and the texture is such welcome softness- a reprieve after the hard stone. Bella picks a few stray blades of grass and fallen pine needles and flicks them away.

"I could have had you with me the whole time, couldn't I?"

She sits back on her heels, looking out over the cemetery. The breeze is fresh almost to the point of being painful, and with no long hair to hide behind, Bella's ears are beginning to ache deep inside with the intrusion of the unrelenting wind.

There are many things she would say to her father, but the recognition, the spiritual presence she was looking for, isn't here.

She feels the weight of all the years wasted on neglecting herself, and on wilfully suppressing her memories. Charlie Swan was real, and she spent years pretending that he was an unimportant flash in the pan, a make-believe invisible friend. She wasted years brushing him, and herself, under the rug, when she could have carried him with her.

The realization that what's left of Charlie is within herself vitrifies her spirit with a layer of warmth. One day, she might be equal to the task of honoring his life and of understanding his death.

With one last look to the etched pines standing vigil over her father's name, Bella returns to the land of the living.

Wordlessly, she climbs back on the motorcycle, seating herself behind Edward. She doesn't look back as they ride away.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Abruptly, Bella is awake.

It's barely Sunday.

The dark is absolute; the night moonless outside. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust, and then, she's suddenly aware of the music.

Someone is playing the Rolling Stones, and she recognizes the song. It permeates her senses until it's all she can feel.

It can only be Edward; Jasper and Sparky left hours ago.

Bella can't leap out of bed fast enough.

Padding on bare feet, she follows the sound down to the ground floor, beyond the kitchen and into the den.

_...childhood living is easy to do..._

There are stairs here, leading down to the music, and she follows them. One at a time, slowly, softly, Bella makes her way down until she reaches a door.

A sliver of flickering light glows from beneath, and she ignores a final pang of conscience that reminds her she probably shouldn't be here. One last deep breath, and she raises her hand to the door, opening it soundlessly, a white hand against the darkness.

The flickering sliver turns into a warm glow that reaches for her in welcome. She feels her face and body bathed in that orange light, transforming her from Bella into a sensual, ethereal being with a candlelit halo.

Inside the darkened cellar room, Edward sits cross-legged on the floor, listening to the song with his back to the doorway. Beyond him is another of those amazing windows that lets the woodland right into the house, except that this one is at ground level and the dense forest slopes slightly away from the house here.

_...you know I can't let you slide through my hands..._

This window is like an entrance into the underworld, with low-lying ferns and mosses lining the ground outside, shielded from sunlight by the tall canopy above. It's like looking into a forest burrow, a secret place where the only sound is a soft rustling of evergreen leaves and the time of day is perpetual dusk. Dark green shadows prevail here, and hide everything from prying eyes.

Edward sits facing the window, but he's not looking at it- if he were, he would see the reflection of Bella standing in the now open doorway. His hands are in his hair, elbows braced on his thighs, and he rocks gently while the music plays around him.

It has always been one of her favorite songs, but whatever it has meant to her before now, Bella knows that for the rest of her life, whenever she hears it, this image of Edward will burn in her memory.

The words resound in her head with the fury of a tornado on the outside, while the calm eye of the storm touches down over her heart.

For the first time, she's close to believing that he was telling the truth when he said he cared for her. Suddenly, she recognizes the honesty of his words, and beyond them, his feelings.

He loves her.

Edward loves her.

And what's more, there is proof all around him, in this safe, dark place he has called home for days now, so that she could have the comfort of his own childhood room.

_...wild horses couldn't drag me away..._

Bella's mouth falls open as she absorbs the stunning, frightening and exhilarating evidence of his devotion. Her own eyes stare back at her from all over the room, witnessing her enlightened astonishment.

Edward has been busy.

Huge sheets of paper are tacked onto walls all over the room, each wearing Edward's heart on the surface for all to see. A narrow futon mattress on the floor near the window looks pathetically sad in this basic room devoid of furniture, and she swallows hard, thinking about Edward sleeping here, surrounded by these effigies of her.

Some of the drawings are downright violent, made with bold, sweeping black strokes, uncompromising in their declaration, her face wrestled from the monochrome with such passion.

**BELLA!**

Others are soft and tender, inscribed to rest lightly on the surface of the paper as though the slightest breeze could blow them away into whispers; as though her face was an imagined daydream.

_bella._

**Bella**. BELLA. _bella.._.

Bella.

Drawing upon drawing stares back at her as she stands stunned in the doorway of the basement room, finally beginning to understand.

She finds herself wondering if she really looks like this, if she's really this beautiful, because if there is one word that can be used to describe these drawings, it's this:_ beautiful._

Perhaps it is his hand that makes her like this, and she could never have imagined that he might house such a talent.

The sheer volume and force of it should make him explode from within into winding ribbons of color and light.

His work is skilled, the likenesses of her are nothing short of incredible.

There is one in particular where he has drawn her sleeping face with such care, capturing so perfectly the feeling of peaceful calm, that it makes her want to weep for knowing that there are moments where she is so untroubled.

_Has he watched me sleeping? _

Perhaps he did so at the hospital and has drawn this from memory. It's absolutely astounding.

She has never been more surprised by another person in all her life. People are capable of the worst kinds of behavior, nothing base and hideous has ever really shocked her.

But this, _this _has caught her so completely unaware that she's almost shaking at the discovery.

From every corner of the room, her own features look back at her, chanting: _look how he loves you, look how he sees you!_ ...and it's obvious that he does care for her. Is the curve of her mouth really so sensual? Are her eyes this solemn?

There are drawings of her with a long, dark mane, winding around in curlicues, and there are drawings of her since she chopped it all off, too, the hair bold and sharp, angular against the soft curve of her cheek. It's obvious that he has been here, daily, adding to this collection.

He has given her such power over him in this room.

Her bare feet make no sound as she steals into the room and comes to stand behind Edward, mesmerized by the beauty he sees in her face echoing in his artwork. Her movement, reflected in the window, attracts his eye and he looks up from beneath burnished auburn hair that has flopped down over his face.

In silence, he watches the reflection of her inky silhouette against a rectangle of brightness that is the doorway, light from the stair blocking her slim shape through the short cotton shift she wears to bed.

With the light behind her flaring over the softness of her thigh and her narrow waist, she's seraphic. The transparency is deceptive, showing everything and nothing, but the hint of the Man Ray muse outlined in the bright light of the doorway is so perfect that it hurts his eyes.

..._no sweeping exits or offstage lights could make me be bitter or treat you unkind..._

From the beautiful drawings that surround them both, Bella lowers her eyes to the man at her feet, and knows that he watches her reflection just as she watches him. His hands are blackened from the charcoal he's been using- the evidence of a new drawing on an easel close by. Strangely, the drawing is of a pair of feminine hands, the fingers entwined together, palms facing up as though making a woven basket.

_What will he place in those hands? _

She creates her own answer.

Her fingers straighten and reach for him, touching down lightly in his thick, soft hair. Edward is motionless beneath her hand, sitting as though petrified into stone by her touch.

Emboldened by his still acquiescence, Bella thrills at the way his thatch of hair folds down softly beneath her palm, and she moves closer still, gathering him into her.

Edward comes willingly, finally softening into her hand and turning his face into her thigh. Bella can feel his warm breath coming thickly, through the thin fabric of her cotton shift.

Slowly he kneels and reaches up his arms, fisting handfuls of her shift at her hips, and she can't help the shiver that raises her skin into goose bumps all over her body.

Her skin feels energized and alive in his presence alone, but his touch makes her breathless and steals her reason.

_...let's do some living after we die... _

Edward rubs his face gently into her thigh and she can feel the growth of his stubble through the thin fabric, deliciously rough and harsh against her skin.

"Bella," he whispers urgently into her thigh while her hand kneads and tugs his auburn hair.

_Can this really be happening?_

The sensation of his panting breaths on her belly and her breast as she lowers herself down to the floor is incendiary, the waves of heat are so intense that they threaten to immolate them both.

Sinking down to him, she wraps her whole arms around him like vines, fingers splayed into his hair and palms on his skull like she might be able to absorb his thoughts and his goodness into herself.

_Edward, Edward, Edward..._ chants her skin, and the thrill of feeling the texture of his hair is like a flash of lightning all over her body until his name spills from her mouth as breathy as a whisper. "Edward," she says over and over.

"Edward..."_ I love you._

"Edward..." _I need you like air._

_Edward._

She had no idea she could be this passionate about anything... anyone.

Bella eases down slowly until she's sitting across Edward's lap, bare feet curled into each other. With her arms around him like this, she's close enough to notice that he smells of coffee, worn-in cotton and warm skin. She wants to bury her face in that scent and never come up for plain air again.

Instead, she hovers so close and feels her chest jump like a bass drum, her heart a galloping, runaway Mustang. The fluttering that she always feels in her gut when Edward is near her has intensified into an ache, and she shivers, wondering at her audacity to be sitting in his embrace like it's no big deal, when it's the most amazing thing that has happened ever, ever, _ever._

His nearness is stupefying.

It takes decades to get there but suddenly, their faces are so close together that every fiber of Bella's being wants to close the gap and be safe, be home.

Her hair feels like it's standing on end as she watches Edward's mouth form her name through a sigh. It sounds like relief.

Edward's eyes are heavy-lidded as he stares at her mouth.

_Come closer._

_Stop fighting._

Bella can't bear the intensity, can't live through this moment intact.

Her eyes flutter closed while Edward's gravity pulls her in and finally, slowly, she feels her nose brush against Edward's in the sweetest moment of electric torment.

How can the breaching of such a small distance as the one between their entwined bodies feel so huge and momentous?

She teases the tip of her nose against his, buoyed by the tiny momentum of every breath while Edward's hair flops down over their eyes.

One more shattered breath and it's subtle, this meeting of her all consuming fantasy and her reality, the worlds converging at the place where their lips whisper against each other, yielding up the truth of their bond.

The kiss is as light as the fluttering of eyelashes on the palm of a hand- barely a touch, but it explodes over Bella's skin like a Molotov cocktail, and she gasps against Edward's mouth at the concentrated bliss spreading through her every pore.

She's oblivious to Edward desperately clutching her shift along with a handful of her hip, hard enough to bruise. His other hand is splayed flat against her back, holding her to him, hard.

Lips caress and part, hover and alight, pressing hotly against each other, testing and coaxing.

They plead and entreat, beg and harass each other, sweetly torturing her senses and she dies there, right in his arms.

Everywhere he touches her, he clasps and grabs and grips hard, except that one place where his mouth is the moist, decadent softness of a peeled grape.

Her mouth opens just as her eyes close, and her head is completely void of any thought that doesn't include Edward's mouth on her mouth and her hands in his glorious, chaotic hair.

It doesn't matter how many times she has dreamed of this moment, because she could have never imagined the visceral need to _be closer,_ to _take more_ and _give it all _which tugs on her insides.

Edward's soft mouth coaxes hers once, twice, three times, setting off a chain of firecrackers in the pit of her belly- the heat is volcanic.

Then, he takes her top lip between his own and begins to exert the slightest pressure while she uses all her facilities just to keep breathing through this relentless, heavenly assault on her senses.

He smells divine, like a man should, and it's not a fragrance as much as the warmth of his skin just radiating at her like the hottest summer sun.

Beneath his clothes, his shoulders and back feel powerful, muscular, strong and lean, just as she thought they would.

Her hand drops to his forearm, and she gently traces his healing scar, whispering _thank you, thank you, thank you_ into his mouth and against his kisses, which become firmer and more desperate with every breath, insistent on her mouth.

"Thank you for saving my life," she whispers, clutching at her tattered presence of mind, wanting to be coherent now, at least to say these words before she falls completely.

_Thank you for loving me._

Edward smiles against her mouth and it's addictive, this huge, expanding feeling. He peppers her face with kisses, light and fleeting over her eyes and healing cheek, hard and nuzzling over her jaw and throat, until she lifts her face up to heaven and gives him all of her white skin to adore.

Somehow, they've found themselves on the futon against the window to the dark woodland underworld.

With the silent sentinel forest protecting them from the outside world, they're oblivious to everything but this.

"I need to know that you're alright." Edward's words are halting, his voice hoarse. "With me. With this."

He tightens his grip on her hip to accentuate his meaning and she marvels at the contradiction; he holds her tighter while creating breathing space between them. "Are you?"

"God yes," she breathes an invocation into his skin and digs her fingers into his shoulder. Daring, her tongue darts out to taste the salt at the base of his throat.

Groaning, he burrows into the crook of her neck and shoulder and nuzzles the soft flesh there, searching out the scar. Gently, he kisses that crescent moon, that imperfect lure.

Searching out her hand, he intertwines their fingers and brings them to his breast like they're dancing, and she soars in his arms even as he holds her closer to his chest.

He smiles against her throat and kisses her clavicles, pressing chants of _Bella, Bella, Bella_ into her skin like the lines he pressed into paper all around them.

"Have you been waiting for me, Edward?" She whispers, still scared of saying these things out loud in case she's imagining this, upstairs somewhere, in the depths of a sleep fantasy.

"Yeah," he murmurs, his voice a thrilling hot breath into her cheek as he kisses it softly with his warm, red mouth. "I was hoping you'd come soon."

Looking down between them, she can see the trail of where he has touched her by the sooty smears of charcoal.

Edward's fingerprints are all over her body, white cotton and skin.

It thrills her to see this evidence of him all over her.

If she could crack open the cavity of her chest, his fingerprints would be all over her heart, too.

Edward looks down as well, and then they're both watching as he releases her hand and trails over her arm, pausing at the crease of her elbow.

So lightly he touches her that goose bumps rise along the trail too, marking his progress with her changed landscape.

Upon reaching the strap of her white shift, he slowly hooks his blackened finger under it and pulls it down from her shoulder. Bella's breath has been stolen, and she cannot look away from his determined face. Edward's eyes are greener than the woodland outside, but they're burning hotter than the sun as he stares at his own fingers making dark dents in her flesh.

Haloed auburn hair falls over his face as he lowers himself to her, swapping fingers for lips- he kisses the exact spot where his fingers have just been, near her bare shoulder.

As light as a feather, he kisses her a little lower toward the swell of her breast and her heavy eyelids sink to oblivion.

Another kiss, lower still, placed so lightly on the hem of her shift as it caresses the curve of her, and Bella's reason has fled. She can only feel.

Edward turns his face into the flesh of her breast, nuzzling the sensitive skin and razing it with his stubbly jaw.

Slowly, he passes over her, nudging the edge of her shift aside with his nose.

Light and tender kisses follow, and where the roughness sets her skin to burn, so the delicate pressing of his mouth soothes it.

Teasing the cotton aside insistently with his nose and mouth, he finally exposes her breast, assailing and then calming, attacking and then subtly stroking her with complete abandon; he is as lost as she in the sensation.

Time has lost meaning and neither of them hears the music anymore, they're both oblivious.

The universe has contracted down to the place where Edward's mouth finally exposes and then closes over Bella's tightened nipple, both of them jolted by this affirmation of life.

"Want you," he rasps into her flesh, and there is nothing in this world she wants more than him. Like the climbing vine, Bella extends her fingers over Edward's arm and shoulder, gathering him closer, breathing too fast. They're flying and crashing, soaring and diving over each other, grasping fingers digging into flesh, hungry mouths breathing words of love and need into hot skin.

Possessed and possessing, they rush in their need to gift themselves, one to the other, believing now that there is more of this to come to them, so much more.

There will be slow and wanton, languid and teasing. There will be adoring and lavishing and taking and giving, but tonight in this makeshift shrine, the need to connect is greater than anything either have ever felt and they're ready, so ready.

They rush, pulling and pushing each other out of their clothing, greedy eyes and gasping breaths, until that perfect moment, that ultimate pause, where just a deep breath will dissolve two into one. The rap at the gate before the storm of the keep.

Edward looks over the flushed woman beneath him and doesn't see the hacked hair or the bruised face, the haunted past or the desperate child. He sees only Bella, with her wise eyes and that mouth... _that mouth_ slightly open with his name on her tongue, and he feels impelled, he _must_ take that final, deep breath.

_Jesus Christ. Right there._

And so he does, with lips hovering open over her mouth as he slowly pushes himself inside the reality, so much more than the dark muse fantasy. She's hot and soft and pliant and _oh God_, the sounds she makes, the perfect shape and sheath of her, everything kills him little by little.

"_Oh God_, Bella..." His broken sigh is a revelation.

They pause, foreheads together, adjusting and breathing, until he can't stand it anymore, until he must have her, must move, must feel. Almost involuntarily, he flexes those slim hips into her body and the pleasure is blinding- he groans into her shoulder. When Bella's head falls to the side with a breathy, rich gasp, he nips at her neck, beginning to create the ebb and flow of their bodies, with their fingers woven together on the mattress beside them, _the holy palmers kiss_.

He swallows her sounds and gives her his own, as his eyes memorize new moments, new expressions. Her mouth, _her mouth,_ like a butterfly, like a ripe peach, a soft mystery- he can't get enough of her. Edward's eyes are not open enough, his arms are too few to take all he needs from her and his heart too small to be the only offering in return.

There are more moments like this for them, and it makes him smile to know that they can't revoke this, it's undeniable. She's the journey and the destination, right there beneath him- his place in the world, and the world itself.

Bella thought she knew her own body, but here it is, singing in pitch-perfect key for the first time.

_He_ does this, only he.

Dim light flickers over Edward's face as he traps her hand under his, grinding them both into the mattress, again and again with deliciously intense friction. She arches beneath him, unable to be still and he gasps as his eyes are drawn to where the shift is pushed aside over her barely-draped breasts, taut and heaving with her panting breaths full of his name. Looking down between them, the black finger-shaped smears of charcoal over her roseate nipples ignite desire like napalm and they both oscillate in the dim light like things possessed.

Wanting more, always more, Bella meets him when he comes at her and ebbs the tide when he recedes, somehow perfect, somehow right.

Kneading softened flesh with his calloused hands, he makes her ache, makes her moan. When he moves in her, the thin band of green fire around solid black pupils flashes like lightning and she can see that he feels it, too. It's not just good. It's spectacular. People live entire lifetimes without ever experiencing this, without riding this perfect storm.

She invokes all the deities to witness the act of their love, and when there are no more words, she breathes to live, only to survive these perfect moments of clarity.

When at last they spend themselves, it's relief.

Sweet, peaceful relief.

It burns beneath Bella's skin like a layer of invincibility.

They doze, entwined, the dark woodland outside a silent sentinel over their exhausted bodies.

Later, in the dark, they find each other again. Whispers and tentative, needful touches turn into wanting, then into having.

"I might never sleep again," Edward rasps thickly into her nape, hands sliding under her arms to cup her white breasts from behind and torment her puckered nipples. He nudges her leg with his own and finds her like this, thick with sleep and long and slow this time, now that the storm has receded.

"You don't need sleep," she whispers, licking her lips, dry and stung as they are from adoring his stubbly jaw and throat and from being kissed senseless. She watches their reflection in the window, barely outlined shapes moving, claiming, primal.

"I only need you," he agrees, nipping lightly at her shoulder as he lets her have all of him, too.

Much later, Bella opens her eyes to feel even, deep breaths in her ear, fanning lightly across her cheek. It's still dark outside. Time has passed, but she doesn't know how much. It's not important.

Though it feels like she has been aware and half awake all night, somehow Bella is still surprised by the heaviness of Edward's arm across her body as he sleeps beside her. The moment that she becomes aware of it, it feels too hot and too heavy to stay there for long, though she would sooner bite off her own than ask him to move it. She can't believe that she's here, sleeping in his hot, safe embrace.

Hours ago, she snuck into this room, following the trail of music. Now, one by one, the sensations return to her and she draws a shaky breath, fluttering inside as she remembers what they did, how they loved. The clench low in her belly feels so primal and irresistible; it won't be denied. She wants him again, needs him, moving within and anchoring her to the earth with his body. He strips away all her masks without even trying, and she's more naked with him than she has ever been, even in her previous life.

It's an exhilarating rush to give up so many pretenses and to just be herself with him.

Nobody has ever done anything to gain her trust before. As far as she can remember, nobody has ever needed it.

She knows so much more now than the physical attraction which levelled her on that first day. He has given her everything, allowed her to be everything and accepted her as she is.

There is no reticence in his face, no guile. She has always been the author of her own guilt and shame, she can see that now. It's unfair to accuse him of the things she perpetrates against herself, when he has done nothing but help her to this moment of discovery, in a basement room filled with proof of his steadfast sincerity.

He had faith in her when she herself had none. He sat here and poured his faith in her onto these drawings instead of hating her for her base nature and blaming her for his injury.

Turning her head, she finds him awake, watching her intently. In the darkness, his eyes are black, smoldering coals.

He's beautiful. Intense and intent, his eyes devour her, and she feels it low in the pit of her stomach.

"Hi," she manages, her head full of cotton wool when he looks at her like that.

"Hi," he replies, his grin cocked to the side. How is it possible to want something this much?

"Can we stay here all day?"

"God, yes. I don't think I can actually walk, anyway." Edward's hand is no longer a weight across her body, it's busy returning to the places that make her eyes roll back and her mouth fall open. He cups her breast and fondles skilfully, teasing, kneading and pulling at her until she's putty in his hand.

"Good. Just...come here." Bella buries her fingers in the thick auburn mess and they soar to the sun, flying until all their feathers burn off and they fall like dead weights toward their sanctuary.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

Overlapping layers of paint speak in gold, blue and green to the rough brick surface, though their voice isn't as loud as Bella remembers from before. The colors are not as vivid, they're more earthy and not the cacophony she expected.

Above, new glass covers the window to Bella's old bedroom. Most of her possessions are already in Edward's warehouse, space created for boxes of books and clothes among his music. She still can't look at that window without something cold creeping over her skin. It's going to take some serious work to push it to the back of her mind while she stays at Edward's warehouse.

It's not a permanent solution, but it's the only way she can be free of the apartment and the memories it holds, at a time when they're still so raw and she has no income. Bella will stay with Edward for a time, and with Alice in Bellingham, too, until she can stand on her own feet and decide what to do long-term and how to live this new life.

Overhead, the cedar stands as it always has, a reminder of a time when all these suburbs were a swaying, breathing sea of such ancient guardians. Standing by the mural that was her only friend, it's all too easy to drift into a sweet daydream where she and Edward nimbly sprint across the branches from the apartment to the warehouse, spiriting her possessions lightly, efficiently away.

In reality, she's dusty and sore from packing and carrying everything down to her car, then driving around the block only to lift and move it into Edward's space. Bella looks at her hands and smiles, liking the gritty honesty of the dirt. She brings them together, rubbing at the sore spots that ache from the work, grateful that she's standing here at all.

"Wow, I had no idea this was here!" Edward's words fall lightly as he walks up behind her in the courtyard.

She sighs, thrilled to share this with him.

"It's amazing, isn't it? I love it. I wish I knew what it says," Bella answers, and although she has tried to decipher it and failed on numerous occasions, she still tilts her head this way and that, looking for the method to the pretty madness.

"Kismet," Edward says surely.

"Kismet?" Bella looks at him, then back at the mural. She looks for sense in the insane labyrinth of shapes and colors until she thinks her eyeballs are going to fall out.

Nothing. She still can't see it.

Suddenly, Edward is close. Real close. She feels herself being pulled into his orbit, and free-falls gladly, sure that he will catch her.

And so he does, encircling her with his arms like solid, warm stone.

He nods against the side of her face, his mouth sending a delicious breath over the shell of her ear. Bella stands, mesmerized.

"You can read this?"

"Sure," he replies, grinning. "It's a guy thing."

"Oh, a _guy_ thing?" Bella snorts, "are you sure it's not a _vandal_ thing?"

"It might be a vandal guy thing." Edward concedes.

"And this says Kismet. You're sure?"

"Uh-huh. It's probably the guy's tag."

"The what now?"

"His tag. His street name. The name he was known by among other... vandal guys."

"Kismet is his name... tag?"

Edward nuzzles her ear, warm breaths raising goose bumps on her skin, then nudges her with the tip of his nose. "Well, not his real name, obviously."

"Obviously!" Bella begins to giggle as Edward's insistent nudging tickles her neck. Giggles become breathless gasps as his lips relentlessly feather over delicate skin. Bella flushes to the tips of her ears with how wanted he makes her feel, and how beautiful.

"We're done here; let me take you out to eat," he mutters lowly in between kisses and gently pulls on her hand, but she resists him.

"Do you mind if I just take a moment here?"

"Want me to wait for you?"

"No. I'll catch up in a minute."

Breathless, she senses Edward stepping back and looks sideways at him in all his sweaty, dusty glory. Lifting boxes agrees with him, she thinks.

"Don't be long," he says, and gives her that sweet, quirky grin, the one that only creases one cheek but pulls at something deep inside her until she's thinking about the way his spare, flexing body looks when sweat beads upon it. He knows it, too, smiling wide and cheeky at her stunned mullet expression.

He walks backward, leaving her alone with Kismet's masterpiece.

Smiling and laying her face against the mural's rough surface, Bella caresses it with the flat of her hand, just like those weeks ago when she first had her soul-rending epiphany.

Textured, warmed brick answers her hand, whispering rough nothings. She remembers back to a night that she found comfort here as Edward played on the other side. She knows now, as does he, that they were so much closer than either could have suspected- not just in physical proximity, but in the spirit world, too.

Bella extends her slender arm and just like she did all those weeks ago, she carefully lifts the curtain of the creeping vine away from the wall.

The secret door existed here all along, but she couldn't see it with those old eyes.

She couldn't see it because it was within her.

Kismet.

Smiling, she allows the vine to spring back into its natural place, and follows her Edward from the shadowy courtyard into the light of the rare and beautiful sun.

-Ø-Ø-Ø-

"_It was the heavenly Muse who led me on my venture down that dark descent, then led me up again, though the path was long and hard."_

_Milton, Paradise Lost, Book 3._

_**~Fin~**_

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**A/N:** Thank You.


	22. A Fragment

**Please forgive me for posting this as a chapter to an already completed story, it was not my original intention.**

**However, I've received a few messages from readers who stumbled onto the outtake I wrote for Fandom For Texas, marking an end to the The Dark Muse.**

**So, I thought I'd let those who read this story know that a futuretake has been posted as chapter 2 of The Dark Muse Outtakes story which can be found on my profile.**

**Please find an excerpt below, and thank you for reading, should you decide to do so.**

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Edward's hand closes over her hip and he works the tip of his fingers under her waistband, just to touch her skin. _Warm_ and _soft_ and _home_, he thinks, as he nestles in the cradle of her belly right between her hipbones with fingers snagged at her waist like she's an anchor that makes him real.

Above him, Bella sighs, content.

He scratches rough hands over her pale skin and shimmies up a little until his auburn head nestles below her ribs and almost under her clothes, tucking himself up inside her soft, woolen cardigan.

"I wanna live here," he mumbles.

Bella tightens the edges of the cardigan around them both. "You do."

When she begins to stroke his hair, he wishes he could doze off, just like this. Sighing, he stills his hands and listens to the rain beating the building outside while the heaters hum a comforting warmth into the air around them. Beneath him, the steady rhythm of Bella's heartbeat lulls him, and he coasts gently to her beat.

"I did something," he confesses to her belly button. Bella doesn't answer, and her hand continues playing with the hair at his nape as though he didn't just light the wick of a bomb.

"I was thinking the other day... I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe this is a really stupid thing to do and I'm really nervous now because you might hate-"

"Edward."

Her innocent-looking hand yanks his hair painfully. "Just tell me."

"I found an old friend of your Dad's."

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**A/N:** Thank you for all the support and love you've shown me and my story. Thank you so much.


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